


Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea

by PunkyNemo (TheVampireCat)



Category: Daredevil (TV), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Canon Typical Violence, Dogs, F/M, Pirate AU, Slow Burn, Steampunk AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-29
Updated: 2019-04-05
Packaged: 2019-04-29 18:39:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 74,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14478786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheVampireCat/pseuds/PunkyNemo
Summary: Karen Page might not be sure about much: where her home is, what her heart wants, or why she’s on a ship headed back to New York when two years ago she vowed to leave it behind forever.But she is sure that monsters aren’t real, that myths are just stories and that dead men don’t roam the high seas looking for vengeance. But when disaster strikes during her voyage, she realises she is going to need to rethink a lot of things.





	1. The stars align

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, I feel this needs a lot of explaining.
> 
> This was the result of far too much wine and apparently the fact that there is zero line between one of my work colleagues and me. Basically she dared me to write this and now I have got a good chunk of it done and so here it is. I can safely say that any lighthearted funny bits are hers. Mine is the angst. If you read this S, you need to be super sorry for making this happen.
> 
> So now, with that out of the way I think I need to say a few things upfront.
> 
> 1\. This is a Pirate AU and I don't write AUs, hence why it probably makes no sense.  
> 2\. This is also a Steampunk AU.  
> 3\. I am well aware that the Golden Age of Piracy and the generally accepted Victorian time frame for Steampunk alternative history is not the same time. But I say again, this is a Pirate Steampunk AU about Marvel characters. Artistic licence applies.  
> 4\. I am still writing Be My Saviour. It's just tough right now.  
> 5\. I know very little about ships (the type that sail on the sea).
> 
> And I guess that's all. 
> 
> Wear a helmet.

He's dead.

 

There's a lot of things in life Karen Page isn't sure about - where she is, how she got here and frankly where she was going to and why exactly she was even going in the first place - but the fact that the man in front of her is dead isn't one of them.

 

He has seven - yes she counted -  _ seven _ bullet holes in his chest and his blood is staining a shirt that was once crisp and white and wholly unsuited to this specific line of his work.

 

The other thing Miss Page knows is that he's dead because of her. Because the pistol with its ornate silver grip is still warm in her shaking hands and the smell of gunpowder hangs heavy in the stifling air, choking all of them. And, if she allows herself to think back for even a second all she can see is his smug smile, the gun lying on the desk in front of her, Mr Grotto in his manacles shaking his head slowly at her as he realised her intentions seconds before she acted on them - and dear sweet Foggy whimpering in pain in the corner. And then it all came together and she knew what she had to do. And she did and…

 

And oh god.

 

Oh god.  _ Foggy _ .

 

She’s not convinced the air - hot and smoky as it is - is actually breathable but she sucks heavy gulps of it into her lungs anyway, feels the gunpowder sear her throat, and takes two quick strides across the room, falls to her knees next to where he lies clutching at his side.

 

He shies away from her as she tries to pull his hand off the gaping hole in his hip but she fixes him with a sharp stare.

 

“Let me look damnit.”

 

“Okay but point that thing somewhere else if you don't mind, it already shot me once today,” His voice is wheezing and strained when he speaks. “Where’d you even learn to use it?”

 

She glances down at the gun still in her hand, now slippery with Foggy's blood and the sweat of her hands. Something tells her she's going to get some use out of it again before the day is through. Something else tells her that it might not be enough.

 

Because nothing about this stupid excursion has ever been enough. Nothing about it has gone how she thought it would.

 

Because when Karen Page woke up this morning she did so in a clean and cool cabin in what wasn't quite a luxury passenger ship but veered very close in that direction anyway. She expected an uneventful day of endless blue seas, maybe a gull or two pecking at the pastries her and Foggy were going to have for lunch on the deck and the knowledge that, when the sun went down, she'd be a day closer to New York. And  _ maybe _ a day closer to becoming Mrs Murdock and not a day closer to figuring out just how she felt about that. 

 

But, she thinks glancing at the blood slicking across her hands and staining her clothes, if you want the good Lord to laugh, tell him your plans. He'll enjoy the joke.

 

Suffice to say they're not eating pastries or fighting off gulls. They're not staring at the endless blue sky and she has no idea how much closer or further away from New York they are in relation to where they were this morning. The only thing that's unchanged is they’re still in the middle of the ocean. And truth be told, the ocean wasn't her favourite aspect of this little trip anyway. 

 

Although now, on a strange ship, miles off their original course, her only allies being a very wounded Foggy Nelson and Mr Grotto, also known as the most cowardly man she's ever met, the ocean is looking like the least of her problems. Unlike the dead Admiral James Wesley, who is slumped in his chair and bleeding out all over his polished wooden floors and flashy Turkish rug. She also sees now there's a spray of red across that the enormous painting of a sea siren behind him.

 

Because of her. Because  _ she  _ shot him.

 

And while the kind of work he was doing before she sent him to meet his maker wasn't exactly the kind he'd be telling his superiors about, she's fairly sure - and yes it's another of those things she's sure about - his crew are not going to be feeling all that forgiving. And she has no clue what to do about any of it, except some vague idea that she needs to staunch Foggy’s bleeding and hang onto that gun, even if he understandably does not want it too near his person.

 

“Sorry,” she says distractedly and tucks it into her skirt, under her belt so it presses hot and heavy into the small of her back. He nods weakly and when she looks at him expectantly, he grudgingly pries his fingers off his side.

 

The wound looks enormous although she suspects that's an assessment made by the rising panic in the back of her throat and not much else. She's also pretty sure the bullet is still lodged inside him which might not be the worst thing in the world from the little Karen knows about injuries and stemming blood flow. Still, speaking of his blood, it’s a deep crimson and pumping out into his clothes and onto the floor and one stuck piece of metal and gunpowder isn't going to save him unless someone sees to him quickly.

 

And she could have made that happen. She knows there's a physician on board - she saw his quarters only a few doors away when they were dragged into the captain's cabin. But, she thinks glancing over her shoulder to where Admiral Wesley’s dead body lies slumped in his ostentatious brown leather chair, she's just killed any leverage she might have. 

 

“Oh sweet Jesus,” Mr Grotto, standing behind her uselessly, arms dangling at his sides. “Oh dear sweet lord.”

 

She has no idea why a man like that would think the good Lord would help him but she doesn't have the time or inclination to worry about the state of Mr Grotto’s soul right now.

 

“I'm going to die aren't I?” Foggy wheezes.

 

It's definitely a possibility, and one she wishes she didn't have to even consider.

 

“It's fine,” she says. “It's a flesh wound.”

 

It is by no means a flesh wound.

 

“But it's  _ my _ flesh,” he says as if this is something she hasn't factored into the equation.

 

“Oh god, what have we done?” Grotto wails. “What have  _ you _ done? We're all going to die!”

 

She snaps her head round to look at him. He's standing there in a old raggedy shift, smeared with things she doesn't want to think about, manacles still around his feet. He has blood on him too although she's not sure from where and he smells worse than he looks. 

 

“They're going to kill us all…”

 

“Well then,” her voice icy. “You ain't in a much better position than you were when we started on this trip, are you? If I recall you were crying you were gonna die then too. So quit your whining and help me or I swear to god I will put this last bullet in you myself so you don't have to worry anymore.”

 

That shuts him up immediately. She doesn't think it would have worked a week ago when they started this journey with nothing but a common goal of returning to New York, to the little settlement of Hell’s Kitchen and not much else. And even that goal was a little hazy, a little lost. But back then she was just a lady travelling home and Foggy a dear companion and Grotto nothing more than a low level prisoner who was being dragged quite literally kicking and screaming back home to be executed. They weren't the same. Not at all. And yet now... Now they are all  _ exactly _ the same. They're all captives on a strange ship, all brought down to a lowest common denominator and there's no reason to pretend any of them are something they're not.

 

Either way after everything they've been through and now especially with the Admiral dead by her hand, she realises that to Grotto she’s no longer some gentle born lady who faints at the sight of blood, but rather someone who just killed a man and looks very likely to do it again should the need arise.

 

He gulps and she gives him a long hard look before returning her attention to Foggy, touching his face gently. He's pale and even though the cabin is hot and almost airless she can see he's starting to shiver. 

 

“Foggy, I need you to focus. We've got to get out of here. I'm going to help you up and then we are going to go.”

 

He looks at her as if she's just asked him to set a course for the stars in one of those big fancy airships they've been talking about in the newspapers. And part of her is grateful for his good spirits in spite of the dire situation. The other part knows he's just doing it for her.

 

“Yeah, just let me grab my blood and I'll be right there.”

 

She snorts, purses her lips.

 

“There's a physician’s quarters just down the hall,” and as she says it, the first hints of a plan start forming in her mind. There's a doctor and medical supplies and she has a persuasive bargaining chip tucked into the back of her skirt and if the stars align and their luck is good, maybe just maybe they can make it off this ship alive.

 

But then both the stars and the luck need to do their part and she's pretty sure they're not going to.

 

“And then what?” Foggy asks. “He patches me up and they let us go?” 

 

He gasps as she tears off a piece of her long skirts and presses the bunched fabric hard against his wound. “Give… give us food for a month and a ship and send us on our way to New York, never you mind?”

 

“Good heavens Foggy,” she says. “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. Right now we need to move.”

 

“If your plan is walking two doors down that hall and asking someone to patch me up we’re going to come to it sooner than you think,” he wheezes. 

 

She gives him an indulgent smile. “Foggy, I came up with that plan in a few seconds, who knows what I could do a minute and a half from now.”

 

Despite himself Foggy grins.

 

“It’s not a very good plan,” says Grotto.

 

“You,” she says glancing at him. “If you can't say anything useful you do us all a favour and hold your tongue.”

 

And with that she grabs Foggy’s arm, pulls it over her shoulders and all but drags him to his feet.

 

He's dead weight and his predilection for custard patties and marbled blancmange doesn't help one little bit as she staggers against him, feels her knees crumbling.

 

He reaches out a bloody hand, presses it against Admiral Wesley’s snow white walls and groans loudly, says her name.

 

“A little help?” She says staring pointedly at Mr Grotto.

 

Mr Grotto for his part doesn't seem to be in a helping mood. He's just standing there clenching and unclenching his fists, mouth opening and closing like a fish and it takes all her willpower not to smack his dirty face. She thinks she would if she wasn't trying to keep Foggy standing. She thinks she might show them all just how unladylike she can be.

 

“Mr Grotto,” she says firmly. “I am the only person on this ship with any interest in saving your life. I'm also the only person in this room with a weapon. I'm your best chance right now even if it's a slim one. So get over here and help me for the love of God.”

 

She's not sure if he's genuinely scared of her or if he sees the possibility of saving his own skin as simply a better plan than crying in a corner with a dead body but he suddenly snaps out of his fugue and grabs Foggy’s free arm, hoists him up, taking a considerable amount of his weight off her.

 

“It's okay Foggy,” she says. “It's going to be okay.”

 

There's no way she can guarantee that. In fact she's surprised they've lasted this long, that no one came running at the sound of gunfire. That the guard posted at the door didn't burst into the room after the first shot. And she wonders what could possibly be keeping the crew so occupied at a time like this.

 

And sometimes Karen shouldn't ask questions like this, because all too often they get answered in ways she doesn't expect.

 

She pushes the door to the admiral’s office open and a rush of slightly cooler air from the hall hits her face. It's fresh and smells of the sea and nothing like the heavy coppery stench of blood behind her and she breathes deeply, lets it fill her lungs.

 

It's good. It's the one good thing so far about today.

 

“We’re gonna die,” Grotto says again and she's about to tell him to shut up when she realises the reason no one came running is that there is no one here. No guards, no crew, not even a lowly cabin boy, not even the mangy dog Admiral Wesley kicked as he dragged the three of them this way earlier.

 

But Karen doesn't have time to worry about that now. She doesn't have time to worry about anything except Foggy and the fact that she only has one bullet in this ridiculous silver pistol, which she very well might use on Mr Grotto unless he continues pulling his own weight and a good portion of Foggy’s too.

 

She glances at Grotto and nods.

 

“Come on.”

 

And that's when the world explodes.

 

At least that's what it feels like although later Karen will come to understand that in the grander scheme of things, the explosion itself was small. The physical manifestation of the blast and the walls shaking around her, the ceiling splintering above was nothing compared to what was to come.

 

But not now. Not now with smoke in her eyes and dust in her lungs, her palm sliced down the middle by shrapnel and dripping blood into the debris. Not now with Foggy falling heavily on top of her and Grotto wedged uncomfortably beneath both of them. Not now with the world exploding.

 

There's a moment - a second - when everything stops, a hush settling over the ship like the dust settling over them.

 

And then it does it again.

 

A sound like water hitting a fire and then a second blast rips through the cabin. This time she sees the cannonball flying above their heads. It tears through the walls, right through the physician’s quarters and opens up a great big hole to the outside, bright sunlight streaming in and blinding her. She holds up an arm to shield them, tries to cover Foggy’s head and then she feels the floor shifting underneath and the whole ship groans and screeches as metal grinds on metal and they start to slide sideways. And she's convinced the three of them are going to slip right out of the cabin, across the deck and drown in the sea below. And Karen Page really doesn't want to drown. Of all the ways to go, that ranks up there with the worst. So she digs the heels of her boots into the debris, fixes an arm around Foggy’s middle and tries not to hear the horrible  _ ooof _ sound he makes as she touches his wound.

 

But then, just as she's bracing herself to hold Foggy’s weight and hopes that Grotto is doing the same for her, the ship tips back, sways from side to side like a small paddle boat being tossed on stormy seas and then miraculously steadies itself.

 

Karen Page doesn't believe in miracles.

 

She gives herself exactly three seconds to catch her breath. Three seconds to hear the shouts from the deck and, under that, the ebb of the ocean which seems almost mockingly gentle in light of recent events.

 

Three seconds and then she’s moving because she knows if they stay here they are absolutely going to die and she refuses to do that in the middle of a strange ocean while held captive on a strange ship, far away from anyone she loves with the notable exception of Foggy.

 

“Get up! Get up now,” she shouts pushing at him.

 

He groans, whimpers a little but she ignores him, drags herself up. Her skirt and petticoats are in tatters, hanging in long ridiculous tears around her ankles, wrapping around her boots. She reaches down, rips it high above her knees so the tops of her stockings show and she doesn't miss how Mr Grotto’s eyes go wide nor the way he wets his lips with his tongue, and again she wants to hit him.

 

But she doesn't. Hitting will have to wait although she intends to do a lot of it if they ever get out of this. She grabs at Foggy, pulls him up and lets him lean on her. 

 

She can hear gunshots in the distance and then the unmistakable hissing sound of a cannon getting ready to fire.

 

“We have to go,” she says. “We have to go now.”

 

Foggy nods weakly and she turns towards the huge hole in the cabin, takes a staggering step towards it and realises she’s never ever going to make it. Not with the debris scattered all over the ground, not with Foggy’s weight and certainly not with whatever havoc the next blast will bring.

 

But suddenly Grotto is there again and he's got his shoulder under Foggy's arm and he's ushering them towards the deck and the sunshine and whatever demon from the depths that's causing all this destruction. And she can't help but feel that whatever it is, it can't be worse than being stuck in Admiral Wesley’s stifling office. 

 

She also accepts that she could be wrong. She has been about most things today.

 

More gunfire, the sound of another explosion blasting through the ship - this one further away than the others, but she's pretty sure it's ripping into the bow which means they don't have long before the actual sinking starts. 

 

And then they're bursting out onto the main deck and she's squinting into the sun, trying to make sense of whatever it is that's happening and finding it impossible. 

 

The swing guns are unmanned and the wooden floor is covered in shattered wood and twisted metal. The mizzenmast is broken, and the once regal blue sails lie smoking and tattered over the sides of the ship. Below them men are running and screaming, heading for the lifeboats, which she has to admit is probably the best plan they have right now. She catches sight of the dog cowering near the bow, its eyes wild, body shaking. It really was a sad looking thing and she feels a wave of compassion for it, because it is assuredly going to die. And unlike her she's pretty sure it's never had a good day in its life.

 

Something explodes portside and she covers her eyes, coughs the smoke out of her lungs and turns to tell Grotto they need to head for the lifeboats. 

 

But Grotto isn't listening. Grotto is staring up into the smoky sky, hands pulling at dirty strands of hair.

 

“Oh no,” he says. “Oh no no no.” 

 

And she’s about to yell at him for wasting time again, for being such a coward when their chances are so slim as it is already, but something tells her to look up, to follow his gaze. And then through the haze and the gunsmoke she sees it, looming to the side like some kind of behemoth from the deep and her blood turns to ice in her veins.

 

Because she knows who and what this is. Because when she thought her day couldn't get worse she didn't think it a challenge for the Lord to make it so.

 

A ship. But it’s not any ship. It's black as pitch and it’s name is the  _ Mea Culpa _ \- “through my fault” or maybe more easily “I am guilty”. She knows that even though the name is not written on it anywhere and even if it was she wouldn't be able to see it through the smoke. 

 

She had thought the stories false. Silly tales told by old wives and tired mothers to scare bad husbands and children alike. She had thought them nothing different from the older stories of goblins stealing maidens and the fae replacing healthy human babes with changelings. She had thought herself living in an age that made its own legends and stories. She never for one moment believed it to be true.

 

Until now. 

 

“I told you,” says Grotto, his voice calmer and more defeated than she's ever heard it. “I told you.”

 

He did. He told them all back when they set sail. But she doesn't think listening to him would have changed anything.

 

“He’s found me,” Grotto says and again she knows who he's talking about. The stories are very clear about who the “he” is.

 

The captain of the  _ Mea Culpa _ doesn't have a name. Not one anyone has ever written down anyway. His sigil is a skull, white on black, no crossbones. He finds evil men - men who hurt, men who kill - and he hunts them across land and sea and he ends them violently and without mercy. Some call him a demon but to most people he's known simply as The Punisher. 

 

The name instils just as much dread as it's meant to.

 

Gunfire behind her. Another explosion that she can't see but cants the ship sideways.She knows they need to run. She knows they need to get to the lifeboats, get themselves away from all this. Yet somehow she can't tear her gaze away from the scene in front of her. The fire, the smoke, the men from the  _ Mea Culpa _ swinging across to the deck on ropes.

 

And then Grotto whimpering softly. 

 

She glances at him, at his ashen face, his trembling knees and the trickle of urine seeping over them and she knows he's going to bolt. There's nowhere to go but she doesn't think any of them are thinking all that logically and she can't really even blame him. 

 

He drops Foggy’s arm, his full weight falling  across her shoulders and making her stagger, and then he runs.

 

She runs too.

 

She's vaguely aware this feels easier than it should, that her footsteps are sure and precise and that more than makes up for Foggy’s stumbling. And she refuses to think about what happens after, she refuses to wonder at what they will do when -  _ if _ \- they get a lifeboat and how long the meagre supplies on-board will help them and if there even is anything to treat Foggy’s injury.

 

It'll be okay. It has to be.

 

And then it isn't.

 

Another high pitched hiss and a cannonball zooms past her head, crashes into the mast and snaps it like a matchstick. Wood and metal go flying, rivets shooting in all directions like bullets and she watches it fall like a chopped tree onto the deck. It knocks Grotto off his feet, sends him sprawling headfirst into the gunwale. 

 

She thinks he's been knocked unconscious but then he's hauling himself up and despite Foggy’s weight and the fact that she knows Grotto would never do the same for them, she extends a hand to him, helps him extract himself from the tangle of wood and metal. There's a nasty gash down the side of his calf, pieces of wood sticking out of his flesh, but he ignores it.

 

And then somehow the three of them are moving again. In the distance she can see the lifeboats coming into view and to her relief there are two left and anyone still alive on this godforsaken ship is nowhere near them. For the first time since this whole mess started, since she was dragged unceremoniously from her passenger ship and onto this one, she feels a spark of hope. 

 

And as always, when this happens, it's gets snuffed out almost instantly.

 

In front of her one of the side doors to the quarter deck swings open hard and fast like someone kicked it. Later she’ll muse that it was funny she could understand that it happened quickly because somehow in the moment after it everything seemed slow, slow and heavy, like suddenly she wasn't running on wood anymore but through mud and sludge.

 

She skids to a halt, Foggy crashing unceremoniously into her and knocking her to her knees, Grotto going down too, screaming something she can't make out because it sounds like they’re underwater and halfway drowning already.

 

And maybe now that she thinks about it, it wouldn't even be so bad. Maybe it would be better than this.

 

She's trying to pull Foggy up and she's lost count of how many times she's done that today when a man steps out from behind the door.

 

The first thing she sees are his boots. They're black and heavy but not the kind of boots she's seen these outlaw men of the sea wear. They're not high with wide cuffs and small heels. These are practical, flat, tied with dark laces and the sole is thick and worn. Their only decoration are a series of small metal studs just above the sole.

 

She doesn't know why she cares about his boots. It seems a silly thing to care about. In fact spending any time looking at this man when she should be running away seems futile. Almost as futile as the running itself.

 

It doesn't change the fact that she can't look away though. She wants to see him, his face, his hands. She wants to see who this man is who has terrorised the seas from coast to coast, this man who's bloodlust can't be slaked.

 

He's silhouetted against the sun, his clothes all black and he's muscular if not any taller than her. But then the sun catches the glint of steel and as he turns towards where they are sprawled she sees the unmistakable outline of a gatling gun. 

 

_ And who in the seven hells needs a damn gatling gun? _

 

The Punisher. The Punisher, that's who.

 

He's not a myth or a legend. He's not a story. He's real - as real as she is. And he's here. And neither of these things are good.

 

What's also not good is the way he's raising that gun, and the cold hard determination in his black eyes as he does.

 

She thinks she screams, she doesn't know what she says. It could be “nooooo” or it could also be an invocation for the good Lord. It could just be meaningless nonsensical noise. She scrambles back to her feet, Grotto is already up and limping away as fast as he can and, as she tugs at Foggy, she can't help but think him the most lily-livered man she has ever had the displeasure of meeting.

 

“Come on Foggy,” she grits out between her teeth. “Come on. We need to go now.”

 

“Yeah I'm getting that Karen,” he says weakly, pushing at his wound and she tries not to notice that the rag is saturated with his blood and it's dribbling out between his fingers. “I've just got a little problem here.”

 

She glances behind her. The Punisher is walking steadily towards them. He's not rushing. His steps are even, deliberate. It's the walk of a man who knows time is on his side, that his prey has nowhere to go and all he has to do is get to it. Which he will do. At his leisure.

 

In his own time.

 

The sun glances off the gun again and she sees the barrels whirl.

 

She hauls Foggy to his feet. She's not sure how. She's heard stories of people able to lift objects double their weight when they're stressed and she's going to start paying more attention to stories from now on. If she gets a "now on", that is. If the man behind her doesn't turn all of them into brown stains on the deck.

 

She has no idea where to go. The only place that's left is back the way they came, back into the cabin and past the office where James Wesley’s corpse is probably starting to rot in the sun.

 

_ And then what? _

 

And then she has no fucking idea, that's what.

 

Ahead of her Grotto is tripping over himself and she thinks he might just throw himself over the edge. Feed himself to the sharks. But that might take a man with a little more courage than he has.

 

He veers to the right as he approaches the hole to the cabin and that's when the whirring sound of the gatling gun rings in her ears and she knows that they're all going to go down in a hail of bullets. Running isn't any use anymore. All that's left now is fighting. All that's left is one small bullet in one small silver pistol.

 

She throws herself down on Foggy as the shooting starts, covering his head with her arms and pressing her face into his hair, the stink of his blood heavy in her nostrils, the horrible cold clamminess of his skin sending an equally cold shiver down her spine.

 

Losing Foggy is unimaginable to her. Someone may as well take her whole heart and cut it out of her, tell her to walk around without her soul or her skin. And yet… and yet she thinks she might need to start imagining that. She thinks she's running out of other options.

 

And something inside her snaps. Something about holding him here in her hands and watching the life run out of him changes everything. Part of her has never been so frightened in her whole life but that part feels small and getting smaller by the second. The other part - the ones that’s consuming the fear - is pure rage at their situation, pure rage at the endless bad luck that brought them here and is now leaving them to die at the hands of a crazed gunman who she's pretty sure has fallen in love with his own legend.

 

When the bullets stop she doesn't even bother to try and get Foggy to stand. It seems cruel. It's also pointless and if this man whose footsteps are ringing across the deck towards them is going to kill them then she’d rather look him in the eye than give him the luxury of shooting her in the back. He doesn't get that.

 

The ship is sinking, Foggy is wounded and she's just about done with this horrible horrible day.

 

Karen Page has had enough.

 

She rolls off Foggy, touches his head gently and turns to squint into the sun. Grotto is also stirring a few inches away to the right, holding a hand up to his face, looking from side to side.

 

“Go on,” Foggy whimpers. “Go on without me. You can still get away.”

 

“Shut up Foggy,” she says. 

 

In the distance she can hear men calling to one another. The  _ Mea Culpa _ ’s crew no doubt. Taking stock, taking lives. Each more deplorable than the one before. And yet none worse than their captain.

 

She pushes herself up to her feet, looks at the blood on her hand where the shrapnel sliced through her and then down at the ruins of her dress and then at her studded scuffed leather boots which were so perfect and pristine she bought them.

 

She's a mess. She accepts this. She's going to die a mess with no funeral and there will be no legends or stories told. No songs sung of Karen Page and her ill fate at sea. Nor of the lover mourning her back home. There is only this. Only a tattered skirt and laddered stockings, a corset so torn and filthy and hair so matted she must look like one of those poor souls who ply their trade down by the docks at night. 

 

She doesn't care. She is so far beyond caring that she's not sure she even remembers the time when she did.

 

So she stands there, what’s left of her petticoats blowing in the wind, filthy hair blowing with it and waits for this man, this legend - this  _ Punisher _ \- to approach, waits for him to draw level with her until she can see the terrible darkness in his eyes, the cruel downturned mouth and the rage burning inside him like a living thing.

 

He comes to a halt in front of her, lowers the gun and looks her up and down in a way Karen has seen many men do before. Except not quite. When men look at her like this it's mostly lasciviousness with the tiniest hint of curiosity and she's willing to bet a fair price that the curiosity only applies to what she might be keeping under her skirts or in her corset. This isn't like that. It's  _ all _ curiosity, maybe a hint of amusement, and none of it involves what may or may not be happening under her clothes, threadbare as they might be under the current circumstances.  

Grotto whimpers behind her, feet scuffing on the floor and she sees the captain's eyes flick towards him and then back to her.

 

As she thought this isn't a man who needs to rush. He knows he's won. He won the minute he decided to attack the ship. She suspects there isn't much he does without knowing the outcome.

 

Except maybe now. Because she's pretty sure he didn't expect to find her and Foggy here and for some reason that's intriguing to him.

 

He frowns at her she sees a keen intelligence in his eyes and she knows he's trying to make sense of the situation. And to be fair, that's one thing they both have in common.

 

And then he speaks.

 

“Ma'am,” he says and she's convinced her ears have deceived her. One too many explosions, one too many gunshots fired too close to her. All of this is true but it doesn't make it any less true that he just called her “Ma'am” 

 

_ Ma'am… _

 

No sarcasm, no jeering. Plain and simple, and said with the deference one might expect of a gentleman speaking to a lady. His voice is also calm, measured. It cracks somewhat and there's a certain hollow grating quality to it but it's low and kind and she finds that at odds with the picture he presents.

 

“Ma'am, I'm going to need you to step aside.”

 

He says this too with a kind of deference, as if it's a request and he isn't holding enough firepower around his middle to annihilate pretty much everything in the ocean and a lot of things that aren't.

 

But, since he's phrasing it as a request, she's going to treat it as one.

 

“No,” she says.

 

For a moment he looks utterly confused. She thinks he's not the kind of man people say no to easily. Not the kind of man who has his orders questioned.

 

Grotto shuffles behind her and she hears the metal links of his manacles chiming together, sliding along the deck.

 

She doesn't need to turn around to know he's trying to slink away. Where he plans on going though is anyone’s guess.

 

But apparently the Punisher is done with guesswork for today and he lifts his gun again, barrels hissing and whirring and he fires a few rounds into the air above their heads.

 

Up close like this the sound is deafening, possibly louder than the cannons and she covers her ears against the noise, bends low in a vain attempt to hide from the bullets even though she knows if he intended to kill her he would, and waits him out. 

 

It feels like it goes on for longer than necessary but she supposes that once you've committed to firing a gatling gun you're probably quite committed for at least a little while before it stops.

 

“Would you stop that!” she says when the noise dies down. “He’s got manacles on and he's wounded. How far do you think he's going to get?”

 

The captain’s black eyes flick to her briefly but he ignores her.

 

“You,” he says to Grotto. “You stay there.”

 

Behind her Grotto mumbles something incoherent but he stays down.

 

Briefly everything is quiet. All she can hear is the gentle sound of the sea, the caw of some gulls overhead and that mangy dog whimpering and she wonders that it's still alive.

 

The gunsmoke is starting to clear and she sees the intense blue sky above. It really is a beautiful day. Just a pity about everything else.

 

And then the captain is talking.

 

“Ma'am, I have no quarrel with you nor your companion over there,” he nods at Foggy who has managed to roll onto his back. “So I'm gonna ask you one more time to step aside.”

 

And oh, it would be so good to be able to believe him. But if there's something else Karen Page knows for sure it's that men lie. They lie and they cheat and not only at cards. Her father did, the man waiting for her back in New York who declared her the love of his life does and even dear sweet Foggy lying there with his life pumping out of him has on occasion fallen down that rabbit hole of half truths and deceit.

 

Karen has no reason to believe this manifestation of pure rage in front of her would be any different.

 

“Or what?” She asks. “You going to shoot me with your big gun? You just going to do that? Shoot an unarmed woman that you have said you have no quarrel with?”

 

And something flares in his eyes. It's not mean or even dangerous but when he draws a ragged breath, presses his lips together in a hard line, she knows she's touched a nerve. She has a wild, insane thought that this might be the end of it. That maybe she's found the right combination of words upsetting enough to him to make him turn around and go back to whatever hell he came from. She's not exactly sure where that leaves her and Foggy but it can only be better than where they are now.

 

But it's not to be. Luck like that doesn't happen to Karen Page. The stars don't align either.

 

Or maybe they do.

 

When his hand lands on her shoulder it's not rough or hard. Firm, yes. Purposeful. Determined to move her out the way, but the intent behind it is not to cause discomfort, nor to frighten. 

 

There's something deep inside that tells her maybe at least some of the story is wrong. Maybe it's not all terror and nightmares. 

 

Maybe.

 

Karen Page has also learnt not to put too much stock in maybes. 

 

And yet… 

 

She holds herself still, her body shielding Foggy’s; her arm outstretched across Grotto’s torso. 

 

_ Come on, _ she thinks.  _ Come on and let's see if your code allows you to go through me. Let's see what you're really made of. _

 

But then Grotto’s nerve fails him and she’s not even surprised - he was never the most stoic of companions. He darts forwards and shoves her so forcefully towards the captain that he staggers backward and she hits her hip against the barrel of the gun, hard enough to bruise. 

 

To his credit, he clutches at her arms to steady her, stops her from falling any further by drawing her in so tightly she almost can't breathe and, in one smooth movement slides his hand down her back, under her belt and grabs her pistol from the top of her skirt, turns them both on the spot and fires it across the deck. 

 

She swears everything slows down again. This man seems to have the power to manipulate time and she watches enthralled as the puff of gunsmoke dissipates in the blue sky, as the sunlight glints off the bullet as it arcs through the air, and finally as the bright splash of red appears on Grotto’s tunic and he falls to his knees clutching his shoulder.

 

And then stillness. Quiet. 

 

Except for the gentle lapping of the waves; except for the heavy breathing of the man she's pressed again. His body is very warm and despite the blood splashed across his clothes and the sweat dripping from his brow, he smells clean. 

 

A cool breeze lifts her hair and with it noise seeps back into the world and the captain turns to look at her, his expression grim. 

 

“Unarmed hey?”

 

She twists against his grip, hands beating at him and he lets her go without struggle as if she's nothing. Inconsequential. He holsters her pistol, pulls the gatling gun over his head, dumps that on the deck and walks to where Grotto’s wedged himself against the gunwale.

 

“It wasn't me. It wasn't me, I swear to the Lord, it wasn't me,” Grotto whimpers as he clutches at his shoulder. “They made me do it… please dear God please.”

 

He may as well be talking to the sea itself for all the difference it makes. The captain reaches down and pulls a blade out of his boot. It's big and heavy and it flashes almost gold when the sun hits it.

 

“Please, I had to. They would have killed me if I'd said anything.”

 

And Karen can't just let things unfold like this in front of her. She can't just let this man die in such an unlawful way, alone and at sea. He might be one of the worst men she's ever met but he's still a man and surely, she thinks to herself, he deserves better. Don't all men?

 

She knows this isn't true though. The dead Admiral lying in his leather chair with his blood coagulating on the floor is testament to exactly what Karen Page thinks about justice and judgement and bad men.

 

Regardless she grabs what's left of her petticoats and rushes forward and just as she's about to call out she feels a hand closing tight around her arm, big fingers biting into her skin. 

 

And then a voice, this one lighter, more musical, a smoothness that hasn't been broken or cracked by a life at sea.

 

“You don't want to do that.”

 

She spins around, raising her free hand but that's grabbed too and the grip is so sharp she cries out.

 

The man holding her is tall and might well be one of the handsomest men Karen Page has ever seen. His hair is long and dark, glossy, curling over his shoulders with a kind of elegance that should be impossible stuck as they are in the middle of the ocean. His beard is cropped short and perfectly groomed and his skin is smooth - again not the weatherbeaten look of someone who's made a career out of living hard off the high seas. Everything about him is wrong for where they are. Everything about him screams he should be drinking fine wines in Paris and wooing sultry women in Rome. He should be a surgeon or a lawyer, a businessman. She knows many of the ladies she kept company with back in New York would swoon at the sight of him, his dark eyes, his glossy hair, the strength of his hands. 

 

She might have even counted herself among them, but then he grins and a mouth that's already hard turns almost cruel. Flash of white teeth like fangs and the hint of a pink tongue. He looks like someone carved his smile with a blade and it makes her shudder. 

 

“You can't stop this,” he says. “It's already done.”

 

This is truth. She knows it in her bones and a small sound wrenches itself out of her throat as she cranes her neck to see the captain looming over Mr Grotto.

 

He's standing absolutely still, the only movement is the wind against his shirt, pressing it to his body and making it billow behind him.

 

Mr Grotto though is quite the opposite, wailing and begging, bound feet kicking uselessly on the deck. To her surprise the dog is there now too, waiting warily a few feet away.

 

The wind catches the captain's voice then and even through the noise she hears it soft and clear.

 

“One batch. Two batch. Penny and dime. Penny and dime.”

 

So that part of the legend is also true.

 

And then the Punisher takes a breath and plants his boot directly onto Grotto’s wounded shoulder, pins him into the side of the ship. The blade flashes again and she thinks she shouts at him to stop at the same moment as Grotto lets out a final cry. And then it's over. The knife slices across his throat mid scream and Grotto’s body slumps forward, legs twitching.

 

And then silence. Deathly this time. No gulls, no waves and the mangy dog, now sniffing at the blood flowing fast and heavy from Grotto’s throat, is quiet. Not that it ever was noisy. She thinks it must have had the sound beaten out of it.

 

The captain stands there breathing deeply, a strange almost gulping of the air as if he's trying to soothe himself. And even though Karen's just watched what must be one of the coldest most brutal murders she's ever seen, there's something tragic in the scene before her and she can't help feel intrigued. Intrigued in a way she never considered before and something deep inside her is screaming for answers. Who is this man and why does he do the things he does? Where is this terrible rage coming from and more importantly, where does it end?

 

But then she hears a crash from the stern and the ship teeters sideways. She can hear the unmistakable sound of sea water hitting the steam engines, filling the lower decks, and the moment is lost.

 

The captain looks back at her and Foggy, the man restraining her. He nods once. 

 

“Bring them,” he says and then he nods at Foggy. “Take him to Curtis.”

 

“Who's Curtis?” She says twisting fruitlessly at her captor. “I won't let you hurt him. I won't let you.”

 

The captain sighs, looks into the distance and then walks back towards them.

 

“Billy, ease up with her,” he says and then he looks Karen straight in the eye. “Curtis is the only chance your half dead friend has in this godforsaken ocean,” his gaze drops to her lips. “So unless you'd like to stay here ma'am…”

 

He doesn't wait for her answer and turns on his heel, leans down to grab his gun and the mangy dog at the same time and heads back towards his black ship.

 

And she has no choice but to follow.


	2. Damsel in distress

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God AUs are tricky and I am going to fuck this up.
> 
> I should have just written a one-shot about Foggy and Micro going out to sing karaoke.
> 
> Thanks for the comments on this. As always they mean the world to me. You guys are the best.

His name is Frank.

 

Frank Castle.

 

She turns it over in her head a few times, trying to get a feel for it and the man it belongs to. Trying to figure out if it suits him; seeing if she can fix it to him and if it sticks.

 

It does.

 

It's a solid name. Solid like him. Strong, but not conspicuous. And, like him, it feels like there's more to it, more lurking just beneath the surface. Something tells her not to pick at that. Something else tells her that if she has the chance she will.

 

And she thinks she will.

 

She’s alive and so is Foggy and if Frank Castle, The Punisher, Dread Captain of the _Mea Culpa_ intended to do them harm he would have done it already.

 

She _thinks._

 

But she’s been wrong about a lot of things.

 

He has been true to his word though. Three of his men, including the one he called Billy, another called Gunner and a third whose name she didn’t catch, helped to carry Foggy over onto the _Mea Culpa_ and took him straight to their infirmary. She doesn't really remember all too much about making her way onto the ship. There were a lot of faces, some staring, others going about their business and not paying much attention. She kept her head down, eyes fixed on the ground and cheeks burning as she felt their gazes - real and imagined - on her bare legs, her torn bodice. She probably wouldn't recognise most of the men if she saw them again and she doesn’t know if that’s good or bad.

 

There are a few things that stand out though; fragments from here and there that stuck with her. No one said anything to her. She noted that specifically, because it is almost impossible for woman such as herself to walk down a street in any given city without wolf whistles and improper propositions, ruffians making grabs at her from dark alleys and high-born gentlemen making lewd comments from their carriages. Yet the men on the ship were quiet. Intrigued and interested, yes most definitely, but they held their tongues.

 

She remembers seeing a large gray dog bouncing like he had springs in his feet and rushing towards the captain barking happily; he ruffled its ears but didn’t let it get too close to the bundle of canine misery he held in his arms. She also remembers that the ship wasn't all black but rather dark woods and hints of silver. It was clean too. Far cleaner than she would have thought for a bunch of lawless men living at sea.

 

Apparently the Punisher doesn’t quite live up to his own stories.

 

Then again, the stories aren't particularly clear or consistent either. They might have only been around for a short while - tales of the dead man and his dead ship and his dead crew didn't start making the papers until only a year or two ago - and, as with most tales that don’t have much in the way of cold hard fact, they became fuzzy fast. The stories quickly mixed with other stories, diluted themselves with myths and legends but also conflated themselves with normal everyday crimes. He was as guilty of destroying a fleet of naval ships in the South Pacific as he was of slipping rat meat into the pies and broth they’d make in the high-street restaurants in London - often at the same time. He was the Punisher but he was also a ghost and a trickster and a common criminal. He would pick the pockets of upper-class ladies and rob their carriages and they would swoon at the sight of him (Karen finds the thought of anyone swooning at the sight of Frank Castle ludicrous); he would steal food from poor children and frighten old women by hiding in their pantries and putting weevils in their flour. At the same time he was a vampire, a werewolf, a creature of the night that had no name because he was the first. He was a god of war, a god of death, a god of pain and suffering, a damned soul who stole sacred Aztec gold and brought a curse down upon himself and his crew. Some claimed he was dying of lost love but not dead yet, others that he was most assuredly dead but sent back to the world for vengeance. Some said he was just a murderous psychopath who relished his work and others that he was afflicted by demons which had possessed him while he was still a babe at his mother's breast.

 

All stories, all nonsense, maybe the smallest kernel of truth hidden in some of them. Karen didn’t believe them when she first read them and she doesn’t believe them now. She’s seen him. He’s just a man. Flesh and blood. Flesh and blood and some bones all held together with rage. The rest remains to be seen. And if she survives, which she thinks she probably will, she will _see_. She will make sure of it.

 

In the next room she can hear movement, boots shuffling on wooden floors, hushed voices, the occasional curse.

 

Foggy’s in there now, laid out on a wooden table and Mr Curtis Hoyle - _the_ Curtis who is apparently his only chance of survival in the whole ocean, is busy living up to that description.

 

At least she hopes he is. He seemed kind and capable and he ushered her out more than an hour ago, told her to wait here in this little private cabin which has nothing in it other than a bed, a chair, a small gas lantern and a little window to the outside. He promised he’d tell her something when there was something to tell. And he has soft eyes and a face that's easy to trust and he offered her a sheet to cover herself if she so wished, but the day is hot and she didn’t take it. He's also the one who told her the captain's name was Frank.

 

She probably couldn't imagine a less cliched pirate if she tried which is even more jarring as Curtis Hoyle has a wooden leg.

 

It's been a day. It's been more than a day. She feels like she's lost years in the past few hours. And she wonders how many more she's going to lose before this is over. And all she really wants to do - all that means anything in the world right now - is find out that Foggy is going to be okay and then climb into this small bed and sleep for as long as she can.

 

And that complacency in itself is troubling to her. That strange desire not only to sleep but also that she doesn’t believe sleep on this strange ship would be a problem, that she thinks she could in fact do it and just be left alone with her dreams and her thoughts and the vulnerability that comes with unconsciousness. Because Karen Page has always thought of herself as quite savvy. She's observant and quick and she doesn't take things at face value. But she is here in the middle of the ocean on a pirate ship that the legends would have her believe is among the worst - if not the worst - in the Atlantic, maybe the world. She and her dearest friend are at the mercy of a man known as The Punisher and she just watched him brutally murder someone with her pistol and she is now without any means to defend herself. And yet… And yet she doesn't feel as terrified as she thinks she should. Worried, yes. Concerned, absolutely. She has no idea what the future holds for her or Foggy and she wants off this ship as fast as possible but she doesn't feel like they're in imminent danger, that these last few hours of sitting here in this stuffy little cabin will in face be her last in the mortal realm. And that in itself makes this whole situation entirely different to what happened on Wesley’s ship.

 

She wonders if she's being naive. She thinks she probably is and she vows to herself that she won’t become careless, that she’ll expect the worst and be wary of every single man here. And that includes Curtis.

 

She glances down at her hand. It's still bleeding and she's wrapped another torn piece of her skirts around it. She can barely even feel the throb of it anymore and hasn’t for a while now.

 

Getting that cursed bullet out of Foggy and saving his life is a lot more important than her hand.

 

And _oh god_ , she can see it again. The gun going off and Foggy falling to the floor, the casual way the admiral reloaded it, left it on the table in front of her like it was nothing. Like she wouldn’t _dare_. And then the shooting.

 

_Bam bam bam bam bam bam bam._

 

Karen takes a breath, tries to hold back the tears but there's no point. They spill out of her eyes and she shudders.

 

She doesn’t know why they were taken. She doesn’t know why they were on the ship. Save for a few strange questions from the admiral she could almost believe it was pure chance that they ended up there. But she does know that she killed a man. She killed him. Another death on her hands, another crack in the facade of Karen Page. She wonders how many cracks there need to be before none of who she is now remains.

 

And now Foggy. Poor sweet Foggy and she might lose him and the thought is too much to bear.

 

She's not sure how long she cries, she knows that after a while the tears dry up and all she's left with is dry sobs, but those seem endless too and they wrench out of her chest and into the world, and she has no idea if they will ever really end.

 

But they do. After a time, she's left with nothing more but deep gulping breaths and little whimpers that hide in the back of her throat and wait until she's thinks she's done to show her she isn't.

 

Silence for a while, the dull ache in her hand creeping back into the world, and then there's a tentative rap on the door.

 

She waits, thinking she's mistaken some sound from the ship for a knock but then it comes again and she pushes herself out of the chair, stands up, wraps her arms around herself. She might not be fearing for her life right now but there's no reason not to try and be vigilant.

 

And then she realises she's being silly. The door locks from the inside and that's something else that seems completely at odds with her being a prisoner.

 

A third knock and then a voice she doesn't recognise.

 

“Miss, the captain thought you’d be hungry. He asked me to bring you something.”

 

_The captain thought..._

 

It's like the words are a self-fulfilling prophecy and her stomach rumbles loudly. The last time she ate was the previous night and the food wasn’t exactly good so she hadn’t had much and then spent a good deal of time throwing up overboard, Foggy holding her hair back and joking that if her sea legs hadn’t started kicking in all the time she had been away, they certainly weren’t going to start now. She didn’t tell him that her so-called sea legs had been just fine until she’d set foot on that damned passenger ship bound for New York. That she had not vomited once in all the travelling she had done during the time she had been away.

 

“I'd leave it outside but if that dog gets in here he'll eat it…”

 

She wipes at her face, goes to the door, and pulls it open.

 

Standing in the dimly lit passage is a man so tall his head almost brushes the door frame. He’s gangly too, limbs seeming oddly long for his body, maybe so long that he himself doesn’t seem to know what to do with them. He's dressed in a loose grey shirt that comes down to mid thigh and a pair of tan and maroon striped trousers, big scuffed black boots that come almost to his knees. His hair is a mousy mop of messy curls that looks like it hasn't been brushed in weeks.

 

He looks slightly surprised to see her, somewhat disconcerted by her obvious distress, but seemingly realising he is staring, he gives himself a small shake and holds out a tin mug and a chipped porcelain plate with a massive sandwich on it.

 

His hands are big too. Uncalloused though, and soft. No scars. No bruises either, nor a speck of dirt under his nails.

 

There’s also a loose silver wedding band on his ring finger and she can see there’s an engraving but can’t read what it says. Karen doesn't know all too much about pirates and certainly not pirates of this sort, but she's fairly certain most of them don't bring their families onto the ocean with them and she wonders where this man’s wife is right now. Abandoned? Dead? Waiting for him to return to her with riches beyond imagining?

 

_And what kind of a woman marries a pirate anyway?_

 

“Baked the bread myself this morning,” he says and she thinks she detects a hint of pride in his voice. “Fresh every day. Captain's orders.”

 

Again, Karen Page likes to think of herself as astute and not given to childish fantasies or magical thinking - even if she has yet to fully admit to herself that she might well be in this situation on board this ship because of a little bit of both of those things. And yet she finds it very very difficult to equate the man who has for all intents and purposes saved their lives, given her a lockable room and insists of fresh bread every day with the merciless, cruel dead-eyed man from the stories.

 

An image of Grotto’s blood cascading down his chest and pooling out onto the hard wooden deck of Admiral Wesley’s ship flashes through her head and she sucks in a sharp breath, wills it away. It goes, but a second picture of the admiral lying dead in his leatherbound chair - seven bullet holes in his chest - follows it, flickers in and out of existence and she has to bite down on her lip to stop herself making a noise.

 

“Miss?” The man says again and she shakes her head, focuses back on him long enough to notice his piercing blue eyes and the slightly unsettling way his jaw clenches and how despite these things his face is still kind, friendly even. “Are you alright?”

 

No, she’s not alright. She’s not alright at all. She’s so far from any concept of “alright”, the word itself has no place being spoken near her.

 

Still though, Miss Page is hardly going to bare her soul to this strange man, even if he did bring her a sandwich.

 

“Yes, yes, I’m fine,” she says. “This is very kind of you.”

 

She takes the plate and the mug from him and he gives her a small smile, shifts uncomfortably like he’s unsure how to take his leave or even if he should.

 

“You need anything else?” he asks uncertainly. “I've got some books…”

 

“No, no thank you Mr…” her voice trails off and she waits for him to introduce himself properly.

 

“David. David Lieberman.” He offers. “Chief cook and bottle washer,” he adds with a rueful grin.

 

“Karen Page,” she says but doesn’t extend her hand. “And it’s very kind of you to offer Mr Lieberman, but I don't think I could read now.”

 

She inclines her head towards the room next door and he nods, gives her a tight smile which she thinks he intends to be reassuring.

 

“If anyone can fix your friend, Curtis can,” he says.

 

He means it too and it doesn’t feel like he’s placating her or trying to lull her into a false sense of security. They all seem so decent. More so than they should be and even though seconds ago she vowed she would be wary, she struggles to conjure up the necessary fear for it. She wonders if it's fatigue. If she's just too overwhelmed to really be thinking straight. No one could blame her. But she knows she can’t allow herself to be led along like this and something tells her she needs to let them know that she’s watching, that she’s listening and that she is aware of the gravity of the situation.

 

“If he wants to fix him,” she says testily and Mr Lieberman frowns.

 

“Curtis?” he says. “Curtis wants to fix us all.”

 

There's not even the hint of a lie in his voice. He seems genuinely surprised she would even think anything else.

 

He takes a step back, nods once and she senses the conversation is over. “I'll be back later to collect the dishes.”

 

And he turns and heads down the passage.

 

~~~

 

The sandwich is remarkably good as is the bread it's made from. Cured meat, soft cheese, even a hint of mustard and she marvels that a pirate ship would have such a good cook on board when she is sure Mr Lieberman would be able to find honest employment on land at one of those upmarket bakeries Foggy likes to frequent in New York or even at a restaurant.

 

She sniffs at the tin cup expecting to smell spirits or wine but it's just water and part of her is disappointed at that. She thinks after the day she's had she deserves a stiff drink.

 

She wonders how long it will be before anyone comes to find her. While she's not exactly been treated like a prisoner and somehow no one seems to feel the need to keep her locked up, she's wary about venturing too far from this room. Not only because she has no idea what's waiting on the other side but because she wants to be here when they're done with Foggy.

 

Still, it's unnerving just being left with no real sense as to what will happen next or what exactly her status is on the ship and she almost wishes she had asked Mr Lieberman for one of his books if only to pass the time. She still doesn’t think she would have been able to read though.

 

She puts the plate and the mug outside the door, locks it again and goes to the window. She can see the deck and the gunwale and then beyond that the sea, which is a mixture of deep teal and soft purples. The sun is finally going down on this horrible day too and the sky itself is a brilliant canvas of oranges and yellows, blues and reds.

 

It looks like a painting and even though she's been on the sea for a while now she's never really seen it like this - although she has no doubt that this is exactly what it has looked like every time dusk approaches - and for some reason that makes her sad, makes her feel like she’s lost something she might never get back again. She wants to show Foggy, she wants him to see it and appreciate it, be a little at a loss for words and then to say something completely awful and uncultured about it. She _needs_ that.

 

Karen isn't the praying type but she could use the good Lord’s intervention right about now.

 

And, before the thought is even over, there's another knock at her door and Curtis is standing outside wiping his hands on an old rag, and her breath hitches in her throat because it's very bloody and so is the front of his pale blue shirt.

 

But he doesn't leave her wondering for long, even if it feels like an eternity.

 

“He's alive,” he says and his voice is gentle. “We got the bullet out and cauterised the wound. It's really up to him now.”

 

“Will he…?”

 

He shakes his head. “I can't say. His chances are better than they were when he arrived but we’ll only know more when he wakes up.”

 

It's about as good as she could hope for and she appreciates the honesty. Karen Page always appreciates honesty no matter how hard it might be to hear.

 

“Can I see him?” She asks and he nods, hands dropping to his sides and bloody rag hanging against his trousers.

 

“Only for a moment though. He needs to rest,” he trails off briefly as if he’s not sure exactly how to phrase the next thing he needs to say. “And then the captain wants to see you in his cabin.”

 

It's not that she didn't know it was coming. It was obvious he was going to want to speak to her. He has questions and she does feel a certain obligation to answer them, maybe get a few answers for herself and ultimately figure out exactly how concerned she needs to be about her and Foggy’s current circumstances. Still, it’s been an incredibly long and stressful day and she’s not really sure she’s ready for another confrontation with him, not sure she has it in her to look into those dead black eyes again today.

 

“It'll be alright,” Curtis says. “His bark is worse than his bite.”

 

“I’ve seen his bite,” she says, thinking of Grotto. “So that doesn’t bring me much comfort.”

 

Curtis inclines his head towards her as if somewhat conceding her point. “I’ve known Frank for a long time. You don’t have anything to fear.”

 

She's not sure that's entirely true but she has no doubt Curtis believes it. She wonders how much he’d tell her if she asked him. If he’d be willing to tell her the story - the real story - of the _Mea Culpa_ and its terrible captain.

 

She cocks her head, looks at him long and hard. She doesn’t doubt he’s loyal. That he would never break trust with Frank Castle and share things which have been told - and held - in confidence.

 

But right now, none of this matters. Not with the captain wanting to see her and especially not with Foggy barely hanging on in the next room.

 

So she thanks him and heads to the infirmary to see the only person who means anything to her in the whole ocean.

 

~~~

 

Foggy is deathly pale, his skin whiter than the sheet that covers him and again she has to note that for a pirate ship, the sheet is indeed very white.

 

But that horrible sheen of sweat is gone and he doesn't look pasty. His breathing is regular too and while she's sure he's in a lot of pain, he’s resting peacefully and she doesn't think losing him is imminent. She gives herself a moment just to feel the relief, to let it well up inside her belly, up her throat and choke her if that is what it wants to do. He’s alive. He’s alive and stable and there’s every chance he will stay that way.

 

“Thank you,” she says turning to Curtis. “Thank you so much. I don't know how I could repay…”

 

He holds out his hand and hushes her.

 

“It's what I do,” he says. “There's no need.”

 

She has the profound sense that she's looking at someone who is all good. Someone who has managed to rise above any bad thing that's happened to him and make himself better for it. Mr Lieberman was right. Curtis does just want to help. She would have never thought she would find such a man aboard a pirate ship but stranger things have happened today and no matter what happens from here on out she has one more truth she can cling to and that is that Curtis Hoyle is a good man.

 

He lets her sit at Foggy’s bedside for a while. He's not intrusive. She hears him pottering around with his equipment, locking medicine away in his cabinet, cleaning up the blood stains. The infirmary, seemingly like the rest of the ship, is clean. It's practical too. Small but arranged in such a way that allows full freedom of movement. It smells of antiseptic, herbaceous and fresh and even the smell of blood has faded by the time he's done.

 

Karen doesn't do much other than cry a little. There isn't really much she can do. Foggy is asleep or unconscious or a combination of both but seeing the gentle rise and fall of his chest is enough to keep her going for as long as she needs to.

 

He’s a good friend. He’s the best friend she has and as long as they’re together she thinks there isn’t much they can’t figure out.

 

And then Curtis is standing quietly behind her, telling her it's time, and she scrubs a hand across her eyes, touches Foggy's face gently and then follows him out of the room and down the thin winding passages of the cabin towards the back of the ship to the captain's quarters.

 

Curtis points a few things out as they walk, a small library, some storage rooms, the way to the mess hall and the quarterdeck. He tells her the gun deck is below them and the engine room below that. The captain also gives certain crew members private quarters close to his. He points out his own room as well as Billy’s as they pass it. She notes that it's clean here too, the wooden floors swept and the little oil lamps on the walls twinkle brightly. Not one of them is out either and their copper fixings are all polished so that she actually sees her face in them if she slows down enough to look. Not that she really wants to do that. She’s a fright.

 

The passage is empty save for the large grey dog she saw earlier and it wags its tail hard and fast when it sees Curtis. He leans down, pats its head, lets it lick his hand.

 

“Hey Russ, big man,” he says. “What are you doing out here?”

 

“What happened to the other dog?” She asks. “From the other ship?”

 

_That poor mangy thing that deserved so much more than what the world gave it._

 

“That's my next job,” he says. “Frank wants me to see what I can do about her skin and make sure there's nothing else wrong with her.”

 

“You can do that? You're an animal doctor too?”

 

He laughs and shakes his head. “No, but who else is going to do it? He has a soft spot for dogs and he wants her fixed up if we can.”

 

She nods. Somehow it doesn't surprise her that the captain would like dogs.

 

As if he knows he's being spoken about the dog barks loudly and a door opens a few feet away and she's surprised to see Mr Lieberman looking out, frowning. He looks tired and more unkempt than he did earlier and he nods at them and then scowls at the dog.

 

“Shut up Russ,” he says. The dog wags its tail again and makes a playful growling sound, goes low on his front paws.

 

“No, it's not playtime now,” he says.

 

Russ disagrees and does a few more low jumps, shakes his behind in the air, as if he thinks Mr Lieberman didn't get it the first time and just needs to be shown how the game works.

 

Mr Lieberman sighs, holds open his door. “Okay, you win Russ. Come on, I could use the company but just for a little while.”

 

Russ barks happily and bounds into the room and the door closes behind them.

 

Curtis smiles and they continue walking. The passage winds a few more times and then they're standing outside a plain wooden door just like all the others they passed. There's no carvings, nothing ornate or gold plated. Unlike Admiral Wesley’s offices, there's nothing to indicate that this is the captain quarters and even though it’s not surprising that he doesn’t put much value in symbols of status, something about it disconcerts her.

 

Curtis knocks and she hears the captain's gruff voice telling them to come in, and she's suddenly acutely aware that her skirts are doing nothing to cover her legs, that she's exposed almost to her underthings and that sheet Curtis offered her is with Foggy in the infirmary and there is no way she can go back and fetch it now. And even though the state of her clothing hasn't been something that's honestly concerned her up to now, she feels exposed.

 

“It'll be alright,” Curtis says again as he pushes the door open. “Frank is a man of honour.”

 

“It wasn't all that honourable, the way he slit Mr Grotto’s throat.”

 

Curtis cocks his head. “There was some honour in that too. You just need to look a little harder to see it.”

 

_Some honour. Some._

 

And then he's ushering her into the room and all she can see is the captain sitting behind his desk and his eyes are as black and cruel as she remembered.

 

She thought he was a manifestation of pure rage the first time she saw him. There is not one thing about that that’s changed. Still, he’s just a man. A living, breathing man. Strip everything else away and that’s all that’s left and she’s not sure that truly does make him less frightening but it does make it harder to give herself over to any kind of panic or hysteria.

 

He looks her up and down for a second and then nods at Curtis.

 

“How is he?”

 

Curtis shrugs. “As good as we expected. He's resting now.”

 

“Chances?” he asks.

 

“Right now? Decent. Good even.”

 

While they speak she takes a moment to tear her eyes off the captain and look around the room. The office isn’t ostentatious but it's not spartan either. It's lit with little oil lamps which cast very dark shadows on the wooden walls and the window to the left is big and open and she can smell the night sea air pouring through it and hear the waves lapping gently at the side of the ship. It's somehow soothing and she wonders if he finds it that way too. His desk and the chairs on either side of it take up a good deal of space as does a small cabinet, and her eyes are drawn to a framed large map of the world behind him. There's a number of different colour pins stuck in it but and she can't immediately discern their purpose. She does however notice a sepia picture of a woman and two children pushed into the side of the frame and she makes a mental note of that.

 

To the right is a closed door which she imagines probably leads to his sleeping quarters. The mangy dog from the other ship is huddled next to it in the corner, eyes downcast, body trembling.

 

As Karen expected none of this is anything like the admiral’s chambers. There are no Italian paintings, no silly statuettes. No gold leaf on the chairs or snow white walls.

 

None of it. Except for one thing.

 

A small silver pistol - _the_ silver pistol - lying on his desk very close to his hand.

 

“Thanks Curt,” the captain says. “I'll take it from here.”

 

Karen Page might not be a prisoner but it does feel like she's being passed around from one babysitter to another.

 

Curtis nods, looks down at the dog.

 

“Can I take her now?”

 

“Yeah, please. She's terrified though, doesn't want to eat and that skin…”

 

“I'm going to see what I've got for her,” he says. “I’ll figure something out.”

 

The captain thanks him again and Curtis picks up the dog, gives Karen a gentle smile, and leaves, shutting the door with a soft click behind him.

 

And then it's just her and The Punisher and the sound of the deep blue sea outside.

 

She expects that he will make her wait. That he will look her up and down just long enough to disconcert her, make her understand just how much her continued survival depends on his mercy, force her to become increasingly more aware of her torn clothing and her dire situation, but he does none of these things.

 

He asks her to sit, nods at the chair, and she does.

 

“You want a drink?”

 

She blinks. “Excuse me?”

 

“You've had a long day.” He frowns and something passes over his face that looks almost like guilt. “Do you want something to take the edge off?”

 

“Mr Lieberman brought me water earlier…”

 

“Yeah, he's not allowed near the rum,” he says. “Can't hold his liquor, and believe me no one wants to see that.”

 

There's a lightness to his tone and when she looks at him there's a very small smile playing on his lips.

 

It changes his face entirely and she realises with a start that somewhere underneath the dead eyes and rage there's something almost pleasing about how he looks. There's no smoothness to him. No prettiness. In that sense he’s entirely different from the man he called Billy but he is attractive in a brutish sort of way. It's almost as if the good Lord took the roughest pieces of a man that He could and stitched them together only to find that their collective harshness was somehow tempered when all viewed as a whole. His jaw is hard and his nose is big and crooked, his mouth almost cruel but his smile is genuine, mischievous even. Under a gash on his cheek she can see fading bruises and as he turns his head and the candlelight catches his profile old thin scars shimmer on his skin. But it's still his eyes that intrigue her the most. They're deep and dark, almost entirely black and she knows instinctively that he's seen a lot, that  there’s a lifetime of hurt and pain and rage trapped behind them and that probably includes both what he’s received and meted out. They're the kind of eyes one shouldn't look at too long, and yet she finds it hard to drag her own away.

 

He's dangerous, of that she has no doubt. Dangerous and difficult and the kind of man who finds trouble wherever he goes. And, she would wager, when he doesn't find trouble he seeks, he makes it on his own. All the same he has an odd quality to him. Odd because there's a certain unintentional charm, a strangely respectful demeanour that belies his harsh voice and unnerving appearance. It makes it even harder for her to be frightened of him and she wonders how foolish she is for even thinking that.

 

“Ma’am?” he says and she realises she’s staring and hasn’t answered his question. “Drink?”

 

 _Yes_.

 

Yes, she does want a drink. In fact she wants a number of drinks - as many as he can spare. She wants to drink until she can’t stand up and then she wants to fall into a bed and she doesn’t want to wake up again until this nightmare is over. She wonders if he knows it too. That maybe this is how he's trying to soften her up, feign kindness, ply her with alcohol and expect to have her telling him her life story in minutes and probably offering her body to him soon after.

 

She doesn’t think so

 

For all his menace and all the anger she can almost see bristling out of his muscles, this man - Frank - seems completely without artifice.

 

“Yes,” she says. “Please.”

 

He gets up, opens the cupboard and pulls out two glasses.

 

“Rum or wine? I have some gin here too. Whiskey?” he asks.

 

“Rum,” she says. “Just a little.”

 

_No, a lot. A whole lot. I want all the rum you have on this oddly pristine ship. I’ll take the wine and the gin too, save the whiskey for a special occasion, which might just be that I finished everything else you have to offer._

 

He nods, pours some into a glass, slides it across the desk towards her and pours one for himself.

 

She reaches for it and, as she does, he frowns and his eyes snap to her face, black and empty but even so, they burn.

 

“Didn't Curtis fix that for you?” he asks.

 

For a moment she has no idea what he's talking about but then her hand gives a hard heavy throb.

 

“Oh,” she looks down at the bloodied rag, turns her wrist so her palm faces upwards. “I didn't even tell him… he was busy with Foggy… my companion and I just thought…”

 

She doesn’t know what she thought if she’s honest. That it would just go away by itself, that the shrapnel didn’t cut deep enough to cause any issues, that her blood would just flow out of her until there was nothing left. She didn’t think. The truth is, she wasn’t actually thinking in the first place.

 

The captain purses his lips but his frown stays where it is.

 

“Let me see.”

 

“What? No!” she pulls her hand back against her breasts.

 

His eyes narrow and he puts his glass down on his desk.

 

“If it's still bleeding it means it's going to need stitches and if you do nothing about it, it's going to get infected. I might not be Curt but I've seen enough wounds to know a few things.”

 

He fixes her with a hard stare and she can see a muscle jumping in his jaw. Again she thinks this isn't a man used to having his orders questioned. He tells people to do things and they do and maybe it’s because he’s ruthless and frightening but she wonders if it’s also because he’s trustworthy, because he doesn’t make people do things that could hurt them or that he wouldn’t do himself.

 

She sees it now. Her refusal to comply isn’t making him angry because she's defying him but rather because she's being impractical. She's in pain and wounded. He can treat it before it gets worse and infected.

 

She finds it hard to argue with that logic.

 

Reluctantly she holds out her hand and he moves his chair around the desk, sits across from her and glances at her once before circling her wrist with his fingers and unwrapping the rag.

 

He's surprisingly gentle, his hands warm and soft on hers and she finds her gaze drawn to his scarred knuckles, a scratch along his arm.

 

She's also acutely aware now that her palm is indeed throbbing and every movement feels like agony. She wonders if now that everything is over and she’s safe - even though “safe” is relative - if her body is allowing her to feel all the beatings and bruises from the day. She hates to think how she's going to feel in the morning.

 

He turns her hand first to the one side and then to the other, thumb resting against her pulse.

 

“Yeah, that's going to need stitches,” he says.

 

“Wonderful.”

 

“Sorry,” he looks up at her quickly before before heading back to his desk and opening the bottom drawer, retrieving a bottle of rubbing alcohol, a clean rag and a needle and thread.

 

He comes back, takes her wrist again. His hands are very big. They're strong too. She can feel the power in them as he touches her and she takes a deep breath, closes her eyes for a second.

 

She hears him opening the bottle, shuffling a little.

 

“This is going to sting,” he says and she nods.

 

It does. The alcohol sears through her skin like fire and she’s convinced it's eating its way through nerves and bone.

 

She gasps loudly, lets out a little cry.

 

And then his voice again, low and gruff but so very soft.

 

“Shhh shhh shhh shhh.”

 

And suddenly he's blowing on the wound, thumb brushing slowly along the nexus of veins in her wrist and she’s looking at the top of his head, his black hair, the way it's cropped close to his head, his ears which stick out a little more than they should and she doesn't know what to make of any of this.

 

She saw him murder an unarmed man in cold blood, swipe a death blade across his throat and watch as his blood rushed out of him in a dark wave. He didn't care.

 

Or maybe that isn't true at all. Maybe he cared too much.

 

“Good Lord,” she curses as he swabs at the wound again and he rubs her wrist, a little harder than before.

 

“My wi... ,” he begins and then jerks his head up like he's said something he shouldn't and is trying to see if she heard and assess the damage.

 

She heard. And she doesn't need anyone to tell her what he was going to say. She glances at the sepia picture stuck to the map and he pretends not to notice. Still, she feels like she's uncovered something, like one of the pieces of the puzzle is that much closer to falling into place.

 

“Someone I used to know would say that the sting was … that it was just the germs holding on with their teeth.”

 

Despite his momentary alarm his voice is warm and she lets out a small laugh.

 

“It’s a good story,” she says.

 

“Yeah. Yeah, it is.”

 

He nods, turns his attention back to her hand.

 

“Okay?” he asks.

 

“Okay.”

 

“Ready for part two?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

He picks up the needle, holds it over the open flame of one of the candles and threads it.

 

“This is also going to hurt,” he says.

 

“Yeah, I got that.”

 

Another smile and again she's shocked by the change in his face. There's something almost charming in it. Maybe even boyish and she finds it hard to reconcile him with the dread pirate she just saw reduce a ship to splinters in pursuit of one lowly man. She wonders if she should ask about Grotto. She wonders if he would tell her why or if she'd get a stony silence. She thinks she can push this man somewhat - he seems the type - but as of yet she doesn't know how far.

 

But before she can formulate a question he speaks.

 

“Tell me what happened today.”

 

Again, it's phrased as a request even if it isn't, and again, she’ll treat it as one.

 

“Seems to me you have me at a disadvantage, what with a red hot needle at my skin.”

 

He gives her an exasperated look.

 

“Okay,” he says as he slips the needle through her skin and she breathes in sharply. “Let's start easy. My name is Frank. Frank Castle. And you are?”

 

The thread pinches as it pulls taut and he nods at her untouched rum. She takes a swig. It's vile as most rum is but it does have the effect of searing her throat so badly that she momentarily forgets her hand.

 

“It's Karen,” she says. “Karen Page.”

 

He nods and for a while he's quiet and she thinks he might be turning her name over in his head much the same way she did with his.

 

“And your companion?” he asks.

 

Another loop of cotton, this one feels easier, smoother. His hand is also very warm under hers and somehow that seems to lessen the pain.

 

“Foggy… uh Franklin. Franklin Nelson.”

 

“He your husband? Intended?”

 

“Oh heavens no,” she says. “Not Foggy.”

 

“That funny?” he asks.

 

“No no,” she says as the needle pierces her skin again and she jerks her hand involuntarily. He seems ready for it though because his fingers close tightly around hers and the needle doesn't miss its mark. “Foggy is just a dear dear friend. I… I’d been travelling all over and he came to fetch me from Buenos Aires to go back to New York…” she trails off unsure if she should say the next bit, but she decides to anyway. “I’m… I’m supposed to be getting married. He's my fiance’s closest friend.”

 

Any other man she’d expect to make a lewd remark about how stupid her intended is to trust any red-blooded man with his woman, but Mr Castle is apparently not just any man and if he's thinking that - which she doubts - he keeps his thoughts to himself.

 

He does say something however.

 

“He couldn't come himself?”

 

There's something in that. Something deep and more about him than her.

 

He disapproves.

 

Worse though is the fact that she had precisely the same thought when she heard Foggy was coming to fetch her instead of Matt.

 

Another sharp pinch and he hushes her again, nods pointedly at the rum.

 

“So why were you in Buenos Aires anyway?” he asks.

 

She sighs. It's such a complicated question and not one she truly wants to get into with this man for so many reasons.

 

_And yet…_

 

And yet, his thumb is doing that sweep across her wrist again and he’s staring intently at her hand and she hasn’t spoken to anyone - anyone at all - about this. And even though she’s not about to share her innermost thoughts to this man, she’s not sure it would matter if she did. Whatever he decides to do with her and Foggy - and his choices are limited to take them to safety or get rid of them - their acquaintance isn’t going to last very long.

 

“Matt… my… my intended is a lawyer,” she says. “He wanted to settle, make a name for himself. And I wanted to travel and see the world.”

 

“You couldn't do that together?”

 

She glares at the top of his head

 

“Some things are better done apart Mr Castle.”

 

“Like what?”

 

The question is mild but she doesn't miss how loaded it is. She also doesn't miss that he makes a very good point.

 

She chooses to ignore it.

 

“My friend, Mr Ulrich and his wife were going to do some travelling around the world and asked me to accompany them. The timing was just right, so I went.”

 

She doesn't tell him there was more to it. She doesn't tell him that she left New York angry and in tears and that mere days before she did she threw Matt’s ruby engagement ring back at him. She doesn't tell him that she only took it back because he begged and pleaded with her to give him a second chance and that she only agreed if he would allow them both the time and distance to see how they feel. She doesn't tell him that even though she loves him, she still doesn't know the answer to that question.

 

And finally, she doesn't tell him that the ring is not on her finger right now because she wasn't wearing it when Wesley attacked and it's at the bottom of the ocean with the rest of her things and the ship carrying them.

 

“And then?”

 

He's getting to the other side of the wound now and she realises that soon this unusual intimacy will be over and she’s not sure how she feels about that.

 

“We travelled,” she says. “Europe, a little bit of Asia, then across to South America. And then… it was time to go back home so Foggy and I got on a passenger ship called _The Firefly_ \- and a few days out to sea Admiral James Wesley got creative with some gunpowder and blew it up.”

 

If this comes as a surprise to the captain he doesn't show it. He snaps the thread, inspects his handiwork which she has to admit is very neat and precise and then fixes a fresh bandage around it before moving his chair back a few feet and motioning for her to continue.

 

“And?”

 

The problem is she hasn’t got much more she can say without firstly delving a little deeper into her so-called betrothal or secondly, admitting that she picked up that pistol and shot Admiral James Wesley seven times at point blank range with not much thought to anything else. And she's not sure exactly how much Mr Castle is going to appreciate that little fact about her. He might understand, he might well think it was her only option and she had no choice, but he might also start to think she’s dangerous. He might confine them, or worse.

 

While the man in front of her is obviously some outlaw rogue causing terror on the high seas, he is also all that stands between her and Foggy and those high seas. And even though he's been kinder than she would have imagined she's not sure how much he'd appreciate knowing that she too has it in her to kill a man in cold blood if she’s feeling threatened enough.

 

“Scared us both half to death,” she adds unnecessarily.

 

He smirks at that, makes a dry sound in his throat that tells her she's gone too far now and he doesn't believe her.

 

“Captain, I don't know what you're finding so funny. He shot my friend. He kidnapped me.”

 

He glances at the gun on his desk, scratches his chin, and when he looks back at her his expression is amused. Knowing.

 

“I guess that’s a mistake he won't be making again.”

 

She knows she should feel dread of some kind. She can't see any scenario in which her being good with a gun and having a ruthless streak to boot is positive. And certainly the fact that she isn’t afraid to murder the man in charge of a vessel with no thought as to her next move, is not going to stand her in good stead. And yet… and yet he can’t or hasn’t bothered to disguise the hint of admiration in his voice.

 

“Ma’am,” he says. “I’m going to be honest with you here and I expect the same in return. I know you shot James Wesley and now I have some idea of why. What I don’t know is who you are, why you were on his ship, how you know Grotto and what exactly Mr Nelson did to end up shot like he is.”

 

None of these things are important as far as she knows. None of them. She doesn’t have any satisfactory answers.

 

“How did you know?” she asks. “You weren’t there.”

 

“I saw him,” he says. “Walked right past his cabin and there he was in his chair, bleeding onto the floor. You even ruined the painting behind him with his blood.”

 

“Captain…” she has no idea where she's going what she is going to say and he knows it too.

 

He cocks his head.

 

“So Miss Page,” he nods at her rum again and then leans back in his chair. “Let’s start again.  Tell me how Admiral Wesley ended up with seven bullets in his chest because I’m tired of pretending you’re a damsel in distress.”


	3. Scylla and Charybdis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay wow, I am really kind of overwhelmed by the messages I am getting from this. I am so glad you are enjoying it because I am really enjoying writing it too.
> 
> And honestly the fact that so many of you think I am doing okay as far as an AU goes is very important to me because I DON'T KNOW WHAT I AM DOING!!! 
> 
> Anyway, enough of this - you don't need to hear about my existential writing crisis - let's dive right in.

He tells her to start again, at the beginning, and she does.

 

There's a lot left unsaid. He knows this instinctually. It's not that she's lying. She's guarded and the truth is he can't blame her. He's guessing cannons and gatling guns don't make the best first impressions when it comes to the ladies.

 

Although this one might be a little different.

 

She does talk though, she doesn’t lie, and she wavers only in the parts he expected: her fiance and the bit where she killed the admiral.

 

She tells him she left New York a little over two years ago. Incidentally that’s the same amount of time he's had to adjust to his new life and he wonders where she was at the precise moment his world fell apart. (He tries very hard not to look at the sepia photograph on his wall when she says it but he fails and she notices.)

 

Part of him wants to tell her he’s originally from New York too - that in some small way they have a shared history - but he decides against it. It’ll open up too much. It’ll result in too many assumptions, too many questions.

 

She’d ask of course. Something about the way her eyes flashed the first time he saw her, the way she stared him down and didn’t falter - not even for a moment - tells him she would definitely ask and she would be unafraid. He can’t decide if he likes that or if it’s too dangerous to like. He wonders if there’s a comfortable place for both. He wonders if he even wants it to be comfortable.

 

Either way she doesn’t give him a chance to interrupt and he guesses that’s only right. He asked her a question and now he can damn well sit there and listen to her answer it like a goddamn gentleman.

 

So he does.

 

She left New York and her betrothed - and yes, there it is, a little tremble, a little waver at the word -  and travelled with her friends Mr and Mrs Ulrich across the Atlantic, first to Morocco and then over the Mediterranean to Italy and Croatia. They did a very brief tour of Turkey, stopping only in Istanbul and then went back west to Paris for a month before moving to London for six months.

 

They'd wanted to fly from France in one of those big airships that are all over the newspapers - she gets almost wistful when she says this - but they couldn't justify the cost.

 

She takes a sip of rum, winces and he knows she hates the taste and can’t say he blames her - no matter the quality or expense it’s vile stuff - and then she glances at him.

 

Has he ever been on one? An airship? They’re also powered by steam.

 

He shakes his head. He hasn’t. He would have liked to though. He’s spent so much of his life at sea he wonders what it would be like to be in the air - see the world from above instead of below.

 

“I still want to try it. Foggy too,” she says. “Maybe someday.”

 

_Clever._

 

Clever girl. Let him know she has dreams. She has plans. A life - no matter how troubled - and she is still looking forward to living it. It’s hostage negotiation at its finest and he’s impressed. He might have earned a little trust, but she’s not complacent, she’s not oblivious.

 

“Maybe you will,” he says. “There’s a big world out there.”

 

That feels like a lie even though it isn’t one. The world is small. Tiny, in fact. The world is three bullets, sometimes a fourth that wasn’t true enough to get the job done. The world is small enough to hold in his hands and big enough to be lonely all in the same moment.

 

And he won’t - he _won’t_ \- look at the picture on the map.

 

He does.

 

She doesn’t say anything, takes another sip of rum, waits for him to prompt her to continue.

 

He doesn’t immediately though. He lets the silence stretch, finds his eyes drawn to her throat and the hard notches of her collarbones, the dent of her breastbone and the pale curve of her shoulder.

 

He’s staring. He should stop that.

 

“How did you end up in Buenos Aires?” he asks.

 

This is another sore spot but he senses it’s not in the same sphere as the one she carries because of her fiance. Rather it’s one of those things that’s tough because losing things that mean a lot to you _is_ tough, because you never think you will and then you do and you’re completely unprepared. And the worst part is you were never going to be prepared.

 

Slow now. Soft. Voice trembling and occasionally reinforced by a gulp of rum. She tells him that they planned to stay in London for much longer than the six months they did. And then, seemingly out of nowhere Mr Ulrich declared he wanted to see Argentina, told her it had always been a dream of his and one he hoped he would achieve before he died.

 

“I told that there was no reason to rush then. That he had lots of time.” She sighs. “I didn’t know.”

 

“We never really do,” he says and when she looks at him there’s a strange hint of camaraderie and even gratefulness behind the tears.

 

“No, we don’t,” she says. “Always comes from where we least expect it.”

 

_So._

 

More loss than Mr and Mrs Ulrich then.

 

He doesn’t ask. It isn’t his place.

 

He cocks his head, folds his arms against the cool night air. It’s not cold yet but it will be soon and he thinks about her sitting here in her torn dress and her scuffed boots - everything in the world that she owns at the bottom of the ocean.

 

When she starts to speak again she chokes up a little but when he hands her a handkerchief she shakes her head, forces it all down.

 

He got to see the some of the sites in Patagonia - they even went to Chile for a while, but then he said he wanted to go somewhere warmer, somewhere with more creature comforts, so they went north to Santa Fe. They hadn't been there for a month before Mr Ulrich confessed that he’d been told by the doctors in London he hadn’t much longer to live.

 

She looks out of the window, blinks tears out of her eyes.

 

“I spent so long being devastated I wasted time we had left.”

 

“Stop,” he says. “Don’t. It doesn’t help.”

 

She gives him a hard stare but she doesn’t object and continues her story.

 

She says Mrs Ulrich was stoic and strong but she’s come to realise that she never truly saw the depth of Mrs Ulrich’s despair. It wasn't that she didn't look for it. She did. Every day. And she tried so hard to be a comfort to her. She tried to take some of the burden off of her, but is there really a way to do that for someone when they're losing everything they love?

 

Another sip of rum. He doesn't say anything. He doesn't think he needs to.

 

It wasn't long, she tells him, but at times it seemed very long. Suffering is always long.

 

Without meaning to, he nods.

 

Mr Ulrich died one morning six weeks ago. It was peaceful and in his sleep. For three days Mrs Ulrich put on a brave face. Together they made funeral arrangements, they organised the burial, the headstone. And then on the morning of the fourth day when Karen went to wake Mrs Ulrich up, her lips were cold and her body stiff.

 

“The doctor couldn't find a cause of death,” she says. “I guess there aren't tests you can do for a broken heart.”

 

She's wrong. There are tests. They're often worse than the broken heart itself.

 

He's not surprised to hear that when she went to the undertakers to ask for the funeral to be expanded to include Mrs Ulrich as well, the arrangements had already been made.

 

“A day later a letter arrived from New York from my… from Matt … asking that I return.”

 

She doesn't need to say it, but she does anyway.

 

“I didn't have anything left there anymore, so I said yes.”

 

He looks at her long and hard and knows that she's left the most important bit unsaid; she might not have anything left in New York either.

 

Still, his business isn't with her personal life. Fiances, husbands, on again off again courtships have no bearing here.

 

Another sip of rum, bigger this time and he tops up her glass without being asked. The thing about rum is it might be disgusting but you get a taste for it. First time’s awful but the longer you go, the easier it gets even if it doesn't actually get any better.

 

“Go on.”

 

So she travelled to Buenos Aires where she met Mr Nelson who has been sent to escort her home and he doesn't comment on the absurdity of her going on such a journey herself but somehow needing a companion to travel the rest of the way. She doesn't either.

 

“We got onto _The Firefly_ ,” she says. “I told you, you know the rest. We were four days out to see and the Admiral attacked us.”

 

He shakes his head.

 

“No. Don't do that,” he runs a hand over his head. “You know what I'm asking you.”

 

“You're asking me what happened and I'm telling you. I don't have information that I don't have,” she fires back.

 

He sighs. “Okay. Start small. Tell me how you know Grotto.”

 

Her eyes turn a remarkable shade of blue and for the first time in a long time Frank feels like someone is looking right through him, like the icy chips of her irises are slicing into him and she's digging around in his brain for answers.

 

“I didn't know him,” she says. “I saw him at the docks being loaded onto the ship when we got there. Foggy had booked the journey home and we had no idea there was going to be a criminal onboard. He even wanted to take another ship but the captain assured him that Mr Grotto would be locked away and we wouldn't see him.”

 

That makes sense and lines up with the information he had too. Grotto had been arrested at Bahia Blanca for stealing some fine lady’s rubies. Unfortunately for him said fine lady’s father was the chief of police and even more unfortunate was that her rubies weren't the only treasures he'd stolen. And when he’d discovered Grotto was wanted in New York he'd been only too happy to send him back to where he came from.

 

“And did you see him?”

 

She shakes her head. “Not until today.”

 

She's quiet for a while and nursing that rum like it's precious. There's a gentle splash from outside, the caw of some gulls and another chilly breeze blows through the window.

 

“Funny thing though,” she says.

 

“And what's that?”

 

“When we saw him on the docks, he was shouting about how we were all gonna die and how The Punisher was coming for him…” she pauses. “No one believed him.”

 

He pictures her there standing there, squinting into the morning sun, her skirts long and flowing, her corset polished leather and hair blowing in the wind. She has bags with her but not many and her friend, Mr Nelson is carrying a few of his own. She's not smiling. And it's not just because of her recent loss.

 

“Did you believe him?”

 

She shakes her head. “I didn't believe you were anything but an old wives tale about a living dead man until a few hours ago,” she laughs softly, humorlessly. “I'm still getting used the idea that you’re real… and alive.”

 

Sometimes he’s still getting used to the idea too.

 

He takes another swig of rum, makes a sound that could mean anything and she cocks her head, hair falling over one shoulder. It's dirty and matted but there's a strangely distinct curl to it and it bobs as she moves.

 

“You’ve heard the stories they tell about you?” she asks and he nods. “What do you think of them?” 

 

He shrugs. Of course he's heard them. At first they were amusing and he wondered just how gullible people were to believe such nonsense, but after a while they just started getting tedious.

 

“I don't think about them. Not anymore,” and his next question is out of his mouth before he can stop it. “What do you think ... now?”

 

She seems to consider this very deeply. She frowns, bites her lip and doesn't answer immediately.

 

“I think I don't know why you do what you do. But I think you're just a man. And I don't know if that gives me comfort or not.”

 

It's a good answer. Clever. Honest. He didn't expect something so direct but he's starting to get the impression Miss Page is nothing if not direct. But he doesn't want to dwell on this. They're already going places that he'd rather not.

 

“So you're on _The Firefly_ … you and… Foggy?”

 

She nods distractedly and he wonders where her thoughts were.

 

“Yes, all I've seen for four days is sea,” she glances out the window. “I don't know how you do it. Gets boring.”

 

He smiles at that. “Not if you know what to look for.”

 

“What do you look for Captain?”

 

“The colour, the waves, the tides. At night, the moon.”

 

_Redemption._

 

He sounds downright poetic and he's pretty sure she knows it too.

 

“Maybe you'll have to show me sometime.”

 

Also clever. Tell him she's assuming there's an after, a future, that she still has a life and she expects him not to squander it. But he's also starting to think she knows that already.

 

“Ma'am?” Soft now. “How did you end up on _Scylla_?”

 

“Oh was that his ship’s name?” she asks and he nods.

 

“Yeah.”

 

“So the Admiral liked to think of himself as a six-headed rock monster. Does that make you Charybdis?”

 

He shrugs. “I guess it's only a matter of time before the papers call me a belching mythological whirlpool, so why not? ”

 

He doesn't know why he says it. Maybe it's some desire to see her smile and both ease some of her anguish and atone for adding to it, or maybe the rum has loosened his tongue more than he thought, but when she laughs out loud through her tears, he can't help but join in.

 

And no, he wouldn't call it hearty, he wouldn't claim that it boiled up from deep in his belly and overflowed into the world like it used to. But it is genuine and it seems to go on for a long time and both of those things feel new.

 

When she eventually stops, she downs the rest of her drink, shakes her head when he makes to refill it and carries on talking without any prompting.

 

“So we’re on the deck of _The Firefly_ and it looks to be just another day of sailing but the next minute we’re hearing shouting and screaming, explosions.”

 

She pushes hair out of her face. There's blood in it and he thinks he needs to offer her the use of the tub in his cabin. He's fairly certain that she won't want to strip off in the quarterdeck washing facilities.

 

“I thought we were being attacked by pirates.” She snorts and he smiles too. “But apparently it was a sea monster.”

 

“You believe in sea monsters Miss Page?”

 

“I didn’t,” she says.

 

She lets that hang in the air between them for a while and he feels no need or desire to challenge it. He’s not going to defend himself, because the fact is that he can’t.

 

“So they caught you?” he says.

 

“Not immediately,” she says. “We ran down to the crew’s quarterdeck where they were keeping Grotto. I thought that maybe there’d be a guard or a weapon there but there wasn’t. It was just Grotto and he begged me to let him loose, to give him a chance and not leave him to drown or go up in flames, so I let him out.”

 

She looks at him then, eyes hard and he can’t see any trace of the previous humour in them. It’s not fear though, she’s not remotely worried about his reaction to her saving Grotto. She’s daring him, challenging even.

 

_I saved him. And then you took him away._

 

Again, he won’t rise to it, even though the desire to explain who he is and what he does surges in the back of his throat. He reminds himself that he doesn’t owe her or her companion anything. Not a damn thing, not even what he’s given them so far. He tries to make it sound firm in his head, tries to get it locked into his brain as just a foundational truth, but somehow the attempt seems feeble, half-hearted.

 

“And?”

 

“Two of Wesley’s men caught us as we were trying to get back onto the deck. They were going to shoot Grotto but he told them there was a bounty on his head, that he was worth a lot of gold to the right people and that their boss would be very unhappy to hear that they’d killed him.

 

“He was a terrible man but he always did have a way of saving his own skin. I think they were scared of making a mistake so they took him even though they didn’t want him.”

 

“They wanted you though.”

 

“Yeah. They did. Me and Foggy, that was obvious. They said our names and everything. Didn't take any gold or jewels. Didn't steal anything.”

 

 _Except you,_ he thinks. _He stole you._

 

“Why?” he asks and she shakes her head.

 

“I don't know. But the Admiral seemed very happy to have found us. Said it would make someone very pleased.”

 

Frank frowns. “He say who?”

 

She shakes her head again but he can tell it's something she's been trying to figure out herself, that she hasn’t truly had a moment to think about this but it is very present in her mind. “He took us to his office and he was waving that gun around and Foggy tried to stand between me and it and got shot in the process.”

 

She takes a deep breath and glances at her empty glass, thinks on it for a moment and then holds it out to him and he fills it again.

 

Women’s prerogative and all that.

 

There are tears shimmering in her eyes again and briefly he considers sending her back to her room, talking through this again in the morning. But the morning is going to bring its own set of problems and right now, she’s talking candidly and it could be rum, it could be that she’s just overwrought, but whatever it is he doesn't want to risk losing it.

 

“Go on.”

 

She swallows, holds her unwounded palm against her chest.

 

“So Foggy is on the floor and he's bleeding out and the Admiral… he's smiling, you know? Grinning, like it's some big joke. Like Foggy doesn’t matter.” Big gulp of rum and then another. “And he's just standing there reloading that gun. And then he's cleaning it and he puts it down on the desk and turns around and I… I.. .” Her eyes flick to the pistol on the desk and even though he's fairly certain he's earned enough trust and she's not stupid enough to make a lunge for it now, he knows in his bones that underestimating this woman is a mistake. Leaving a loaded gun lying around while she feels threatened is tantamount to suicide.

 

“You shot him,” he says. He keeps his voice even. No judgement.

 

She nods. “I had to.”

 

This is true as well, although not in the way she might think.

 

“Seven times?” he asks.

 

“I didn't want him to get back up again,” she says and that might be the most brutally honest thing he's ever heard.

 

Her eyes meet his then. They're not hard but they are unafraid. He realises she's willing him to say something, to pass judgement and he knows that she knows very well that judgement could be leaving her to the ocean or worse. And he has the distinct impression she's trusting him not to.

 

It's been a long time since anyone has looked at him like that. Of course him and Curtis go back a long way, him and Billy too. But they know what to expect - they understand the way his mind works. This woman has no such insight and yet somehow he thinks she does.

 

“You know the rest,” she says.

 

This is true. He does know the rest. And she's fading fast. He is too. It always gets like this after a kill. There's the rage that fuels him and then after there's that slow wave of relief and release and all he wants to do is lay down and cry.

 

And sometimes he does.

 

Her rum is low again so he pours her another and she watches the glass for a long time. She's tired and maybe a little drunk, he realises, and that's only to be expected. She's had a hell of a day.

 

“Why did you kill him? Mr Grotto?” She asks. Her voice is steady, mild even and he doesn't think she's feigning it. “He was a terrible man to be sure, but there are many terrible men.”

 

She looks pointedly at him.

 

He decides to be honest. There's nothing to be lost here.

 

“He took something very precious from me,” he says and he watches her eyes slide to the photograph behind him. “Something I'll never get back.”

 

The words don't burn as much as they used to.

 

She bites her lip but doesn't push. She knows she's touched on something, been touching on it all night, and now that she's taken a step towards it, he isn't surprised to see her decide it's enough for now.

 

But he does decide to answer a more practical question anyway, even though she hasn't asked. “I knew Grotto was on _The Firefly_. We knew its route and when it was going to be too far from land to turn back.

 

“The plan was to intercept it, ask the captain to hand him over and send you all on your way - we’re not savages Miss Page. But then just as we were on the approach we saw the explosions - figured someone else had done the job for us…”

 

“I didn’t see your ship. You must have good telescopes.”

 

They do. They most definitely do. David has seen to that.

 

“Yeah, they’re pretty good. It's how we saw you and Mr Nelson and Grotto on the admiral’s ship even after yours had sunk.”

 

“So one way or the other I would have met you today,” she says softly. “Scylla and Charybdis.”

 

Indeed. Right there in the middle. That’s where she is. He thinks that’s where he is too.

 

Her eyes are bloodshot and he doesn’t know if it’s the tears, the rum or just fatigue. It doesn’t matter though. He needs to let her go and he’s just being selfish by keeping her here. Frankly he's grateful because as much as he finds himself enjoying her company in a way he didn't imagine he would, he knows that it's turning raw and real and that, given time and maybe a little more rum, he'd be telling her more than he should

 

He downs his drink, looks at her. She looks back and he can't help but be impressed by her fortitude. Sitting there in a torn dress, covered in blood and dirt, hand bandaged and yet she's not backing down. She's not begging.

 

He’s going to repay that. He's put this woman through enough.

 

He takes a breath.

 

“Miss Page, you and your companion are welcome to stay on board until such time as we next make port somewhere it's safe enough for you to leave and continue your journey to New York,” he scrapes his teeth along his bottom lip. “You will both be given shelter and food and whatever medical treatment we can. No harm will come to you while you're on my ship.”

 

“That why my door has a lock?” Mild. Maybe even a little teasing, but he doesn’t let it slide.

 

“Your door has a lock for your peace of mind ma'am. The crew might not be used to polite company but they have rules. I’m going to say it again: no harm will come to you on my ship, no one will lay a hand on you.”

 

“This from the man who only a few hours ago chased me with a gun…” she says.

 

She has a point. But he thinks Miss Page might be the type of woman who always has a point.

 

“You were safe,” he says.

 

“Seems to me that's just the kind of thing a pirate would say when it isn't safe at all.”

 

Still mild. Still teasing. But he’d be a fool to ignore the hint of disapproval at its core.

 

“But you were,” he stands up and goes to close the window against the night time chill. “I was a sharpshooter in the Navy before…” he pauses. “... before all this. I don't miss.”

 

It's her turn to cock her head now and her eyes look like sapphires in the candlelight.

 

“So you could have killed Grotto straight out?” She says. “But you wanted to scare him. Us.”

 

He feels a flare of shame at her words. It's an unusual feeling, set entirely apart from the steady foundation of shame and regret that has become his life for the past two years. He has nothing though, nothing to defend himself with and he thinks she knows it. Miss Page, despite everything she's been through in the last few hours and all the time before, is relentless.

 

“You were never in any danger.”

 

It doesn't feel like an answer. It doesn't even feel like an explanation and if it was it would be useless. She might not have been but it doesn't change the fear she would have felt at the time.

 

She doesn't say anything though, just watches him over the rim of her glass and he senses she's grown weary of the conversation. Or just weary.

 

God knows he is too.

 

“I'll have the cabin boy prepare you a room closer to my quarters tomorrow,” he says. “It'll also have a lock. There are two keys. You will have one. I will keep the other.”

 

He waits for her to say something about how it's only him she has to worry about then. He wouldn't blame her. He's sure that somewhere in all the stories about him there's allusions to him being a violater of women. It's a lie of course. Maybe the biggest one the papers have told but she doesn't know that. And yet…

 

And yet it doesn't even appear that her mind goes there. Not for a second.

 

“Thank you,” she says and seems to reconsider. “Really, thank you. You’ve been very kind.”

 

It’s not a word many people would use to describe him. Not now at least and it feels strange to hear. He's not really sure what to do with it.

 

“Alright,” he says looking away. “I'll also find something for you to wear… we don't have much in the way of ladies’ clothes on board but I'll get you something and you can wash in here tomorrow.”

 

She thanks him again and he gives her a nod, stands there for a second like he isn't sure how to proceed and then picks up the pistol, goes to the door and indicates for her to follow him into the passage. She does.

 

The ship is mostly quiet and he wonders what the time is and if everyone has gone to sleep already. It didn't seem that long that they were in his office but he suspects it's later than he originally thought.

 

Russ is lying outside his door, nose still out of joint at being usurped by the new dog, but when Frank rubs his head, pats his side he wags his tail furiously and slobbers happily down his arm. Miss Page leans down and does the same, gets a lick through the face for her trouble.

 

They pass Billy’s room and then David’s where they hear the excruciating sounds of an untuned guitar being strummed hard and fast.

 

“David's trying to learn to play,” he says as the loud snap of a string breaking echoes down the passage. “What you gonna do?”

 

“Throw it overboard,” she says as if it's the most obvious answer in the world.

 

He barks out a laugh and she chuckles too.

 

“Foggy knows a bit about music - he plays the fiddle - but at least he has an idea of how to do it.”

 

“Well I'm sure we have a fiddle around somewhere, maybe he can show David a thing or two when he's well enough.”

 

“I think he's going to need to show him more than a thing or two if you want to stop that racket,” she says and he snorts.

 

He likes her, he realises. Genuinely. She's forthright and honest and she isn't afraid to speak her mind and that feels new, even though it isn’t. Even though that was something he got so used to once, he just assumed that was how things were meant to be.

 

They stop outside her cabin and he asks her if there's anything else she needs for the night but she shakes her head, thanks him again and reaches for the door handle.

 

There's a moment - a long moment - where he considers the wisdom of what he's about to do and he almost changes his mind. It’s a terrible idea. It’s wrapped up in stupidity and some odd illusion of gallantry which has a tendency to get him into trouble.

 

He does it anyway.

 

“Ma'am?”

 

She stops, turns back to him, eyes wide and curious.

 

He pulls the little pistol out from his waistband and holds it out to her.

 

She breathes in sharply, looks at him and then it with equal amounts suspicion and confusion.

 

“I cleaned it,” he says. “It's loaded too.”

 

Silence. A long stretched out silence and only the occasional splash of waves to break it.

 

“Why?” She asks eventually. “Why would you do this?”

 

It's a really good question. Really good and he doesn't actually have a proper answer.

 

He shrugs.

 

“You're safe. I ain't lying about that. But you're on a strange ship with a bunch of strange men and like I said, you can't put a value on peace of mind.” He inclines his head towards it. “Go on. I want you to have it.”

 

Her fingers brush his as she takes it and just for a split second his eyes meet hers and he thinks she’s about to say something, something big and important but then she seems to think the better of it and she looks away, pushes her door open, takes a step inside.

 

“Thank you Captain.”

 

“I'm sorry for scaring you ma’am,” he says.

 

She seems to consider this for a moment and then she nods firmly. “You saved my life. And Foggy’s. If all I needed was to be a little scared, then that is a small price to pay.”

 

It isn’t though. It really isn’t. But he’s not going to get into that now.

 

He gives her a small smile. “Good night Miss Page. Sleep well.”

 

He steps away, half turns to start making his way back to his quarters when she calls him again.

 

“Captain?”

 

“Yes.”

 

The moonlight glints off her hair, turning it silver and even the blood matted in it an almost beautiful glossy black. She bites her lip, briefly looks like she wishes she hadn’t said anything but then she’s back and staring hard at him.

 

“Maybe one day you'll tell me your story,” she says. “The real story.”

 

It's an odd request and not one that's ever been made of him before; not one anyone has ever needed to make. He waits for the sting, that terrible burn of shame he feels every time someone mentions something that hits a little too close to home. It doesn't come though and it’s an entirely new feeling.

 

“You can hear it from any one of the crew,” he says. “I'm sure Curt would tell you if you asked.”

 

She nods. “Either way I’d like to hear it from you.”

 

He inclines his head towards her. “Maybe. Maybe one day.”

 

It seems good enough for now and she gives him one last smile.

 

“Good night Captain.”

 

“Good night Miss Page.”

 

~~~

 

He goes to David after, bangs loudly on his door and tells him to quit it with that goddamn guitar, threatens - like Miss Page suggested - to throw it overboard, except he promises to throw David over with it.

 

David, for his part is nonplussed.

 

He looks at Frank with tired eyes and lets him inside, takes him to the big desk in the middle of the room, covered in papers and scrolls, maps and a good deal of gold coins.

 

As always David's quarters are a mess. The bed is unmade, the lamps burning so low that it's almost impossible to see, boots and clothes scattered on the floor and Frank wonders when the last time was that he aired the place out. It smells of dog and bird and he glances into the corner where he sees David’s parrot, Red Pepper, huddled up on his perch, feathers puffed up and eyes closed.

 

“I haven't got anything new,” David says. “You know it doesn't work like that. And come on, you got him. Enjoy that for a while. Give us all a break.”

 

Frank shakes his head.

 

“It's not about that.”

 

“What? Not about punishing and murdering? You _are_ full of surprises.”

 

“You're an asshole.”

 

David throws himself into a chair behind the desk, picks up the guitar, takes one look at Frank's face and puts it down again.

 

“Okay, so what is it?”

 

“Do you know anything about James Wesley?”

 

David blinks.

 

“Other than the fact that you blew up his ship and kidnapped his woman, no.”

 

There are many things he could say to that. He chooses the worst, most irrelevant option.

 

“You know full well she's not his woman.”

 

Even to his ears it sounds too quick, too forceful.

 

David raises his eyebrows but doesn't say anything.

 

He's infuriating when he's like this and while Frank concedes that this shouldn't mean a damn thing to David, he also wishes that just occasionally David wouldn't be quite as annoying as he is.

 

“Look I just spoke to her,” Frank says. “Her story is that her and her companion were travelling to New York when the admiral attacked their passenger ship, blew it up and kidnapped them.”

 

David whistles through his teeth, leans forward in his chair.

 

“Why?”

 

“She says she doesn't know.”

 

“You believe her?”

 

The question catches him off guard and it bothers him that it does.

 

“Yeah. Yeah I do.”

 

“Why?

 

“Why what? Why do I believe her?”

 

“Yeah. She's a stranger, travelling with a known criminal - one you've been chasing across the ocean for months might I add - and you've spoken to her for what, an hour or two and now you think you're qualified to judge her?”

 

“She has no reason to lie.”

 

“Everyone has reason to lie.”

 

“Oh for Christ’s sake David, she says they were kidnapped. Her story makes sense and what the hell would she be doing with Grotto anyway?”

 

“That's an excellent question.”

 

His hand curls into a fist and he rests it against his forehead for a second before he speaks.

 

“I swear to…”

 

“Okay, okay,” David holds up his hands. “So what do you want me to do? The admiral is dead so it's not exactly like we need to worry about him coming after us, so if you think she's being honest then I don't see a problem.”

 

“Can you find out why he kidnapped them? What he wanted?”

 

David frowns. “How am I going to do that in the middle of the ocean Frank? It's not like we can send a telegram and even if we could, what exactly are we going to say?”

 

Frank reaches into his shirt, pulls out a piece of rolled up leather tied with small straps and drops it on the desk.

 

It makes a very satisfying thwack as it hits David’s papers and sends a cloud of dust up into his face.

 

“You can start with that. You want answers? You don't think she's telling the truth? That'll help you.”

 

David sighs dramatically, shakes his head but it's all for show. Even in the almost dark room he can't hide the gleam in his eyes.

 

“Come on asshole. You know you want to look.”

 

He purses his lips and grabs a pair of ornate gold-rimmed goggles from his desk draw, pulls them over his eyes. They're blue and Frank has no idea why David likes them so much but he doesn't comment.

 

“What is this?”

 

“I don't know,” Frank says. “I found it in Wesley’s office next to his corpse… she plugged him good. Seven times in the chest.”

 

“Yeah, I see why you like her now.”

 

Frank ignores the taunt. “It's encoded.”

 

“Of course it is,” David says as he unties the straps and unfolds the papers inside. “Why do you think this has something to do with her though?”

 

“Lift up the first page.”

 

He does. Underneath it is a sepia photograph of Karen Page. She's smiling in that somewhat stiff way people seem to smile for the cameras, her eyes overly big, mouth curled up in such a way that it's easy to see she's wondering how long exactly she needs to stay still for before she can relax.

 

She's still pretty though. He guesses certain things are just true no matter what the circumstances.

 

“Okay it's interesting,” David says. “I still don't see why it's important though.”

 

“Look I just wanna know what this asshole wanted with her. Her story checks out and it doesn't make sense that someone of his rank would pull a random girl out of the sea for no reason.”

 

“Maybe it was her companion? Cloudy?”

 

“Foggy,” Frank says and frowns. “Could be, but why is her picture there? And it doesn't matter if it's her or him anyway. They're both here,” he glances around the room and his lip curls. “Can you do it?”

 

David shrugs. “Yeah. I'll give it a shot if you take me off breakfast duty for two weeks.”

 

“What? No.”

 

“Okay then…”

 

David looks pointedly at Miss Page's picture and Frank sighs.

 

“One week.”

 

“Ten days and you show me how to play that damn thing,” he nods at the guitar.

 

“One week and you can ask Billy.”

 

“Oh come on Frank, you know Billy hates me. One week and you show me. A lesson a day.”

 

He glares at David but it doesn't work. It pretty much never does because David doesn't have to let it work and he knows it. He also knows that David is as intrigued by the documents in front of him as he is and curiosity will get the better of him in the end.

 

“One week and I show you how to tune that thing… and you're not out of bread making duty.”

 

“What? Then I still have to be up at four.”

 

“Yeah, life’s a bitch, ain't it?”

 

“No bread making, one week and a lesson a day.”

 

“Not gonna happen.” Frank stands, heads to the door. “And clean this place up will you? That bird is gonna get lost in this mess.”

 

“Frank…”

 

“Just do it David.”

 

“You know you only hurt yourself when you act like this,” David says as Frank shuts the door behind him and heads back to his quarters.

 

~~~

 

_Maria_

 

As always, right after he’s killed, when his blood has been up and then suddenly it’s down, and he can tell himself it’s vengeance because somehow that feels better than punishment, he gets one night. One night to sleep.

 

And he sleeps well.

 

And he dreams.

 

He dreams of her.


	4. Half truths, whole lies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What am I even doing?

Mr Lieberman has a parrot. 

 

Or, more correctly, the  _ Mea Culpa _ has a parrot and one of Mr Lieberman’s tasks is taking care of it.

 

It seems to Karen that Mr Lieberman has a lot of very odd tasks. 

 

This specific one is big and red and it sits on his shoulder pecking at his earlobe as he squints into the sunrise.

 

It's early. She's not sure exactly how early but considering the world is still dim and grey, she's fairly sure it’s before cock crow… if there were any cocks to crow on this ship. The thought strikes her as funny and she has to suppress the half hysterical giggles bubbling in her throat. She wonders if this is stress or lack of sleep. God knows she has both in spades. She spent most of the night worrying about Foggy, and the time she didn’t waste on that she spent replaying her conversation with the captain over and over in her head. And that was all for nothing too. She has no deeper understanding of who he is and what he does than she did after they said goodnight and he handed her the pistol that’s now pressed snugly against the small of her back.

 

And that's a whole other set of complications that she doesn't want to think about just yet.

 

Seven bullets. Seven shots fired.  

 

_ Bam bam bam bam bam bam bam. _

 

Seven. And then a dead man. And then another.

 

She shivers. It's cool this morning. Not extremely so, but there’s enough of a chill to have her rubbing her arms despite the oversized leather coat she's wearing - an oversized leather coat  which she suspects is actually Frank Castle’s even though she can't be certain and he hasn't said anything to confirm her suspicions. It could be she thinks it’s his because it smells like him, but the truth is she wouldn’t know - she never really paid all that much attention when she got close enough to him. No, it’s more that it  _ feels _ like him: big and overwhelming, slightly uncomfortable but providing enough warmth and security that she’d be loathe to let it go. 

 

Karen can’t deny that he’s been good to her. Very good.  _ Too  _ good maybe. 

 

She glances down at herself. True to his word he found her clothes to wear. He also let her clean up and bathe in his chambers so so far he's getting full marks in delivering on his promises. And no, they're not the best clothes. They don't fit all that well. The pants are a heavy black cotton and a little too long but she can tuck those into the tops of her boots; the shirt is too billowy and big and gapes around her much like the leather coat. Still if they have a needle and thread they’re not using to stitch people up, she can take it all in and, even if she can’t, it's better than standing here in her torn petticoats while she waits for the captain to introduce her to the crew.

 

And even that doesn’t feel quite as frightening as it should.

 

Ultimately, with the exception of Foggy still lying unconscious in the infirmary, all is as well as it could be considering the circumstances.

 

And Mr Lieberman has a parrot. 

 

He also has an enormous hat with an obnoxiously bright feather in it, which is something no one else has.

 

She's starting to think he might be the only real pirate on the ship.

 

Billy and Curtis stand to the one side, near the bow, talking in low voices. Curtis looks exhausted and that's no surprise considering he spent a lot of the night checking on Foggy. Billy, on the other hand, looks like he's never been more awake. His hair shines as the morning breeze catches it and his stubble is perfectly groomed, his clothes pressed and fitted. He raises his hand when he sees her and grins, teeth glinting like fangs. She gives him a tight smile in return.

 

The rest of the crew - and there's fewer than she expected for a ship of this size - are also milling about forming loose groups as the last stragglers make their way up the ladders and stairs from the quarterdeck below and into the hazy light. Most of them look tired and unkempt, bleary-eyed, but not specifically annoyed and she suspects that early morning announcements are something of a regular occurrence on the  _ Mea Culpa _ . 

 

The captain is standing a few feet away from her. He's dressed all in black again and his shirt is blowing in the wind. He's not wearing a jacket and she wonders that he's not cold or if he didn't have a spare. He also seems rested, which she shouldn’t find surprising considering the amount of rum they drank, but she does. He doesn't strike her as a man who spends much time sleeping.

 

He hasn't said much to her this morning. He's kept conversation light and pragmatic, knocking on her door before dawn, giving her clothes, showing her to the ablutions, and ultimately telling her to come up to the deck when she's ready. 

 

It doesn't bother her though. She's come to realise that, much like the tides, people ebb and flow too and there’s nothing to do be done for it. The direction their talk took last night was unexpected, if not unpleasant, and Karen suspects he hasn't had that kind of a conversation with a woman or possibly anyone in a very long time. It only makes sense now to leave it to settle, to let it alone for a while and regroup later. 

 

And she wonders why she thinks there will be a later. She wonders even more why she's hoping for one.

 

Finally, everyone is on deck and she folds her arms across herself, hunching her shoulders and pressing the hard leather into her skin. She tries to stand a little further away into the shadow of the cabin, tries to be inconspicuous as she gazes out into the endless blue that is the ocean, but it's useless. She's the only woman for miles. She couldn't be more conspicuous if she tried.

 

For their part the crew doesn't do anything other than cast furtive looks in her direction, almost like they're scared to stare at her too long.

 

She glances at the captain but he's not paying her any heed. She thinks he's doing a headcount, eyes flickering across the crowd in front of them and lips moving silently.

 

And then seemingly satisfied that everyone is accounted for, he takes a step back.

 

“Alright, listen up,” he says and the men stop talking immediately and turn their attention to him, which seems to be exactly what he expects. “We got Grotto yesterday, so you can all give yourselves a pat on the back.”

 

A ripple runs through the group. Most of the crew smile, a few cheer. She notices Curtis doesn't do anything but she doesn't need to be a mindreader to see there's a kind of resignation on his face. He doesn't approve of this, that much is certain. What's also certain is that on some level he understands it.

 

_ There's some honour in that too... _

 

But is there? Is there honour in James Wesley’s blood staining his Turkish carpet? Is there honour in Grotto’s body spasming as his life disappears into the ocean?

 

Again she thinks Curtis would be a very interesting man to sit down and have a few glasses of rum with.

 

“Now, some of you assholes might have noticed we got two guests on board,” the captain's voice is heavy and cracked but surprisingly soft. “The rest of you probably wouldn't notice if your arms fell off.”

 

“Hey, Shark-Bait Jonny, he's talking about you,” someone says and Karen sees a very tall, bulky man with a hook for a hand, cuffing a few of his companions around the ears. He has a huge smile on his face though and the men let out a few belly laughs before the captain continues.

 

“So,” he turns to her, holds out his hand and waves her forward. “For those of you who don't know yet, this is Miss Page.”

 

There's a dreadful silence. It's tense and protracted as every eye on the deck focuses solely on her, which she suspects is what they've been wanting to do since they saw her standing there in the shadows.

 

Cheeks burning, she steps forward expecting a few wolf whistles, comments about extra space in beds or questions about what she would look like on her knees but there's none of that. Some of them give her a once over, others stare at her with hard, heavy eyes, and Shark-Bait Jonny gives her the biggest, warmest smile she thinks she’s ever seen in her life and that makes her feel a little better, a little less awkward and out of place.

  
  


“We picked Miss Page and her companion Mr Nelson off  _ Scylla _ yesterday - they’d run into a little trouble with the late Admiral Wesley,” the captain says and then stops while Shark-Bait Jonny makes a joke about James Wesley sleeping with the fishes in Davy Jones’ locker. Everyone laughs except Mr Lieberman who frowns as the parrot pecks at his cheek.

 

“Alright, alright, settle down,” the captain says. “You all need to listen very carefully to what I am going to say next because it’s important and I don’t want any bullshit excuses like you didn’t know or you were confused or something.”

 

He takes a moment to wait until everyone is quiet and then he looks at her briefly, gives her an encouraging smile.

 

“Miss Page and Mr Nelson are going to be with us until we anchor somewhere safe enough for them to get a ride back to New York .... so at least a week or two, probably more. While Miss Page is here, she _will_ be treated with respect…  I'm going to say that again for those of you who don't clean your ears properly, which is most of you except Billy… 

 

"While Miss Page is here, she is under my protection and she will be treated accordingly. I don't need to tell you what happens if I hear that any of you shitheads stepped out of line.”

 

Another ripple through the crowd. It's not menacing though. Not at all in fact. She thinks they probably expected this the second she stepped onto the ship. Frank Castle might be terrible - he might harbour a rage that is only calmed with horrific violence -  but it doesn’t take much to realise he has a code; that underneath the Punisher there’s a man and he’s decent. More decent than a number of men she's met who don't have reputations like he does. 

 

She doesn’t know how she feels about that. She doesn't know how she feels about that at all.

 

The wind lifts her hair and she shivers again.

 

“Is everybody clear?” He asks and there's a few nods, some more  _ ayes _ and, seemingly satisfied, the captain continues. “Good. So now we're turning this ship around and heading north towards the Caribbean so we can-”

 

And then, cutting through the cold air, there’s a voice from the back of the crowd. It's nervous and cracked and it sounds like whoever it belongs to has a cold he can't quite seem to shake.

 

“Bad luck to have a woman on board. Real bad luck.”

 

The captain stops abruptly, eyes narrowing as he cranes his neck searching for the source of the voice and Karen can't help but notice the despondent look on Curtis’ face, nor the way Billy sighs and rolls his eyes, turns around and looks out onto the ocean.

 

Silence again. It lasts for a good few seconds before the captain breaks it.

 

“Someone got something they want to say?” he asks.

 

Uneasy shuffling and some scowling from the crew, and briefly she thinks whoever is speaking has decided to leave it be and won't say anymore.

 

But then he does.

 

“She was on two ships yesterday,” the voice is firmer now. “They both blew up. She's bad luck.”

 

She can't exactly argue with that logic except for the fact that both ships were blown up by men with itchy trigger fingers and more firepower than they knew what to do with, so blaming it on her seems particularly unfair.

 

The captain is still scanning the crowd when it splits into two groups and standing in the middle is a short man with cropped blond hair, skin pale enough that he looks sickly. 

 

He's young, baby-faced, probably not more than a quarter century old; more of a boy than a man really.

 

Around him some of the men shift uncomfortably, while others just look as exasperated as Billy.

 

The captain’s expression is hard, his eyes black like coal again and nothing more of that mischievous twinkle she saw in them last night nor the gentle humour from a few seconds ago. None of the kindness either. 

 

His gaze flicks to Curtis and then back to the boy and then he sighs, purses his lips, and regards the young man in much the same way she'd imagine he'd regard a child who burned himself on a coal stove after being told repeatedly to stay away.

 

“Wilson, what did I just say? What did I  _ just _ say about how Miss Page is to be treated?”

 

The man doesn't answer but he looks at her reproachfully, head down but eyes gleaming like crystals underneath his brow.

 

“Wilson?” His voice has a strange tone to it. It's halfway between a father reprimanding an errant child and a superior officer giving a subordinate a dressing down. 

 

She thinks in many ways he might not know the difference himself.

 

He cocks his head, stares at Wilson expectantly and the men closest to him take a few steps back. Overhead a lone gull caws and the parrot looks up and ruffles its feathers, makes a sound like it’s annoyed gulls dare to exist. 

 

“I'm just saying that everyone knows…” Wilson starts.

 

“Yeah? What does everyone know?” The captain interrupts. 

 

The boy fidgets nervously but he doesn't back down. 

 

“Ship’s already cursed…”

 

“Is it now?”

 

Wilson nods. “ _ Mea Culpa _ , ends in ‘a’. Means it’s unlucky. It’s just the truth..”

 

So Karen didn't know this was a thing although she did know sailors tend to be a superstitious lot. And even if this is true and  _ Scylla _ and its ‘a’ are at the bottom of the ocean, so is  _ The Firefly, _ so really this little old wives’ tale could go either way.

 

“Oh for Christ's sake Wilson,” the captain says dismissively. 

 

“It’s true. It is bad luck and so is she. She shouldn't be here. She doesn't belong.”

 

_ She doesn't belong. _

 

Wilson might be wrong about a lot of things but she’ll concede that is unlikely to be one of them. She  _ doesn't _ belong here. She's not sure she belongs anywhere else either.

 

Next to her the captain bristles and she can see his fingers twitching dangerously against his thighs.

 

There's a moment she thinks this is going to go very badly. Very, very badly. If he says nothing and lets it slide, he’s weak; if he defends her too harshly it means he's already choosing a stranger over his crew thus proving this man's point.

 

And she doesn't have to wonder which side he’d come down on. It's not even about her. It's about who he is and how he got here.

 

Splash of sea spray against her face, ruffle of feathers from the parrot, tension in the air palpable, stretched.

 

And then, like a lifeline, Curtis steps forward from where he's standing next to Billy, puts a firm hand on Wilson’s shoulder which startles him and he jumps a little, swings around to face him, hands clenched into fists.

 

Curtis doesn't flinch but his eyes are dark and worried.

 

“Come on Lewis,” he says gently. “Only luck a man needs is the kind he makes for himself. Isn't that what we said? Remember?”

 

For a full minute nothing happens, nothing but the wind and the gulls and sounds of feet scuffing on the deck, and then Wilson nods slowly.

 

“Yeah. Yeah we did.”

 

“Okay then,” Curtis says and nods at the captain. “Let’s go see about those engines now. You said we needed to check the overlays.”

 

For a moment Wilson seems a little torn, glancing between the captain and Curtis, and then seemingly realising he’s fighting a losing battle, he gives her another accusatory look and allows Curtis to lead him away.

 

When they’re gone the captain waits a few more seconds before he clears his throat. “Does anyone else have any nonsense going around in their thick skull they'd like to share?”

 

Silence. A little more shuffling, the crew looking at one another and then at their feet. 

 

“Anyone?”

 

“Thick skull!” the parrot says loudly.

 

“You shut up,” Mr Lieberman says.

 

“You shut up,” says the parrot.

 

There’s a few sniggers and even the captain’s mouth twists into a smile and the atmosphere eases slightly.

 

“Okay,  _ other  _ than this little domestic going on over there, does anyone else have anything they want to say?”

 

Another moment of silence and then...

 

“I do.” 

 

Billy.

 

He’s still staring out over the ocean with his back to them, seemingly disinterested in the fuss. 

 

“What is it Bill?

 

He turns around then. He has a huge smile on his face and for once it looks genuine. 

 

“You said we're going north to the Caribbean? We stopping in Barbados?”

 

There's a tangible release of pressure and the crowd relaxes. And then some chuckling. And someone  _ does _ wolf whistle.

 

Even the captain smirks. “Could be. Why Bill? Something there you wanna see?”

 

“Maybe…” he's pretending to be coy but he's not remotely shy about this. “Got a couple of plans, a few things I wanna do.”

 

“I'm sure you do,” someone says and there's a few hearty laughs.

 

“Yeah just make sure she's got some good bounties for us. This ship isn't going to pay for itself,” the captain says and Billy grins, raises his hand to his head in a mock salute.

 

“Aye aye captain.”

 

“Okay now David’s been baking bread,” he says, and Karen doesn't miss the exasperated look Mr Lieberman shoots at him. “So get down to the mess hall and then I want this deck sparkling by noon.”

 

~~~

 

He asks her to eat with him.  _ Asks _ . It's most definitely not an order or a command. It's also not for the pleasure of her company. It's because the crew need to start seeing her as part of the so-called furniture and not some strange anomaly on the ship. 

 

Again he tells her it isn't that he doesn't trust them. They know the rules. They know he will enforce them and his word is his bond and he's ended the employment of more than one of them when they've disobeyed (he doesn't say how and she doesn't question it.) But they're also pirates. They're rough and sometimes uncouth and the sooner everyone is comfortable with the situation the easier it will be.

 

So she agrees. She doesn't see a reason not to and she thinks that pleases him.

 

Like the rest of the ship the mess hall is clean. Meticulously so. It's also bright, lit by both enormous portholes and big gas lamps. The tables are arranged in straight lines and the wood, while pitted and rough, has been thoroughly wiped down. At the back of the hall there's a long server and she's sees Gunner and Shark-Bait Jonny standing behind it with enormous ladles. They're wearing aprons, hair pulled away from their faces. 

 

She's met people who are pedantic about dirt and mess but she doesn't think the captain is one of them. He doesn't seem to take issue with getting dirty or bloody. But he does seem logical and coldly pragmatic about this kind of thing. A clean mess hall means clean food, which means a healthier crew. Neat and fixed sails mean the wind is caught better and they can travel without overloading the steam engines. A stitched hand means less chance of infection.

 

As if he read her thoughts he turns to her as she slides onto a bench, rests her elbows on the table.

 

“How is your hand?”

 

“Oh,” she looks down at it. The bandage is still mostly clean, the faintest hint of brown blood showing through. It still hurts but it's not throbbing anymore and she tells him as much.

 

He nods. “Get Curtis to have a look at it when you see him. He's better at this stuff than me.”

 

“I don't know captain,” she says. “You seemed to do a pretty good job.”

 

When he smiles at her it's almost shy, like he's equally proud and not sure how to take a compliment. It's one of those odd things about him … those little incongruities and, against her better judgment, she finds that she's intrigued.

 

Mr Lieberman, now sans parrot, brings them bread and jam, some cured meats and a plate of eggs, a flask of coffee. He nods at her and scowls at the captain before he retreats back to the kitchen. She notes that the rest of the men queue and she suspects that if she wasn't here the captain would be doing the same thing.

 

He might be living his own legend but he's not drunk on his power. She thinks he would consider that unwise, irresponsible.

 

He pours them both coffee, grabs a few slices of bread.

 

“How is your friend today?” he asks.

 

She’s sure he already knows, can't imagine he didn't ask Curtis already, but she thinks the question is more about her than Foggy anyway.

 

She shrugs. “He's still asleep. His breathing is normal though, and he seems comfortable. He had a bit of a fever in the night but Curtis says it broke. I guess we just wait now.”

 

He nods.

 

“Human body can take a lot,” he says. “Back when I was in the Marines Corps…” he stops suddenly, like he's not sure if he should say anymore but then seemingly doesn't think it much of an issue and carries on. “... I saw men recover from far worse…”

 

There's a lot left hanging here. A lot he's trying not to say. Because she suspects he's also seen men - people - not recover. She thinks maybe he's one of them.

 

His hands are trembling a little as he drinks a mouthful of coffee and she wonders what it would be like to lay a hand on his arm, give it a squeeze. She's not sure if that would be okay. She doesn't want to risk it.

 

And in any case there's something else she wants to discuss. She takes a bite of the cured meat, chews thoroughly before speaking.

 

“Who is Wilson?”

 

He looks at her sharply, butter knife held in mid air.

 

She narrows her eyes, takes a sip of her own coffee. It scalds her throat and it's bitter - not at all like the milky concoctions she used to drink - but she likes it all the same.

 

“Don't you worry about him,” he says.

 

“Not what I asked. Who is he?”

 

He purses his lips, carries on buttering his bread.

 

She waits him out and eventually he seems to decide there's no reason not to tell her.

 

“Lewis,” he says. “Lewis Wilson. He's been with us about a month only.”

 

“So, what's his story?”

 

For a few seconds it looks like he might not tell her, but then he sighs, lifts three eggs onto his plate.

 

“Billy,” he starts. “Billy’s my XO - that’s executive officer, second in command - he’s in charge of recruiting. He's got the kind of face that people trust…”

 

She flags this as something she wants to explore a little more. Not only because of the fact that for the first time since she's met him, the captain is completely and utterly wrong. While she happy to admit Billy has a good face, it's most certainly not a trustworthy one but what’s even more interesting is the captain’s implication that his own face is not one that inspires trust.

 

And yet…

 

And yet she looks around the ship and she can't help but feel that she isn’t the only one that sees something more in him than a killer with an unslakable bloodlust.

 

Then again, she fully accepts she's known him for less than a day and that after what she went through - and maybe because of it - her judgment isn't sound.

 

An image of Matt appears in her head, his face covered in tears and his eyes red. And he’s begging her -  _ begging  _ \- that she understand. Begging that she make peace with something that tears her whole heart to shreds, and even now she can’t believe she agreed to try. It feels like the ultimate betrayal of herself.

 

So no, her judgment of men might not be good at all.

 

“Ma’am?”

 

He’s looking at her over his coffee, frowning a little.

 

“Yes, I’m sorry,” she says. “I wandered off there.” She shakes her head. “So Billy. Billy and his trustworthy face.”

 

“Yeah…” he’s says slowly like he hasn’t quite given himself over to this conversation yet. “Yeah, he vets the crew pretty good. Only lets the best through. They may not look it but they're all decent men…”

 

“And Wilson?” She presses taking a bite of bread and she has to admit it's really, really good bread and Mr Lieberman is a really talented baker.

 

He sighs again, takes another sip of coffee.

 

“Wilson didn't make it through the vetting process. Bill flagged him as being a little erratic and superstitious…” He nods at her then and she has to stop herself from rolling her eyes. “So we said no, told him to go find work somewhere else.”

 

“What happened?”

 

“Curtis happened.”

 

She cocks her head, fills both their coffee mugs again. “Oh?”

 

“Curtis only wants to help,” he says this like he both admires it and considers it an enormous character flaw. “He knew Lewis’ family, wanted to help them out so he made a case for him to come on this voyage. Deal was we get Grotto and then we see how he does. If we’re happy he gets to stay.”

 

“And are you? Happy?”

 

“I was happier before today.”

 

She takes another sip of coffee and then glances up as a plate smashes on the floor near the server.

 

“Oh for Christ's sake Shark-Bait,” the captain shouts without turning around. 

 

Shark-Bait Jonny waves him off and promptly goes to get a broom.

 

The captain shoves a forkful of eggs into his mouth.

 

“Don't you worry about Lewis,” he says. 

 

She bites her lip, lifts her eyebrows.

 

She's not worried, not really. Not  _ yet _ . Karen Page has met enough strange men with strange ideas about women and Lewis Wilson probably doesn't even make the top five. Still though, she has to be practical about her position on the  _ Mea Culpa _ . She is in a confined space with her only options being to stay here or take a chance with the sea which means she has no choices at all. 

 

And while her safety has been guaranteed, Frank Castle also can't be everywhere at once. 

 

She decides to stay away from Lewis and hopefully by the time he remembers she exists she’ll be on another ship making her way to New York. And Matt. 

 

And that's another choice that doesn't feel like a choice at all.

 

All the same, she’ll keep her pistol close.

 

“How long before we get to Barbados?” She asks.

 

He glances out of one of the portholes as if somehow that's enough to tell him.

 

“if we get a good wind, not too long. Two weeks, maybe three. Definitely by the end of May.”

 

“It's going to get hot,” she says and he nods.

 

“Near the equator,” he downs the rest of his coffee, pours himself another. “Don't let it fool you, there'll be some storms before we're done.”

 

Of that she has no doubt.

 

She's about to ask him about those very storms when something behind her grabs his attention. She twists on her bench, looks up to see Curtis looming over her.

 

Her heart drops into her boots and her throat closes up.

 

“Foggy,” she manages to whisper and Curtis nods.

 

“He's awake,” he says. “He's asking for you.”

 

She can feel the exact instant when her heart starts to beat again.

 

She turns to look at the captain and he's nodding at her.

 

“Go,” he says. “Go on. See your friend. We can talk later.”

 

~~~

 

Foggy’s sitting up when she gets to the infirmary. He’s pale and he looks tired but he smiles when she comes in, and it’s just such a relief to see him alive that she has to hold herself back from jumping on top of him and hugging him until he can’t breathe.

 

She doesn't think he'd find it all that amusing to survive a bullet wound only to be suffocated. Then again he might. Foggy’s always had a way of finding the humour in seemingly humourless situations.

 

Curtis doesn’t come in with her. There seems to be a lot of respect for privacy on this ship and apparently the captain’s trust of her carries a lot of weight. She has no doubt though that she is being watched. Observed. That her seeming free reign isn’t free at all. Frank Castle might be a brute, he might be nothing but rage wrapped in some scarred skin and the occasional moment of charm but he’s not stupid. He’s not stupid at all. And she’s not sure whether that scares her more than it relieves her.

 

No matter. Thoughts too big for this small room.

 

“I’m so glad you’re awake,” she says.

 

“ _ I'm _ not,” Foggy says. “I can feel every damn cell in my body.”

 

“Where does it hurt?”

 

“Well there’s this spot between the third and fourth knuckle on my left hand…”

 

“Yeah?” She says glancing at his fingers dubiously. 

 

“Yeah, it's the only place it  _ doesn't _ hurt.”

 

She smiles, touches the exact spot on his hand. “Here?”

 

“Ow!” he shouts melodramatically. “What are you trying to do Karen? Kill me?”

 

She laughs. 

 

“And apparently my cravat is ruined too. It was my favourite.”

 

“I'll get you a new one.”

 

“Come on, you know it won't be the same.”

 

Again, she's grateful for his good spirits. Foggy has a tendency towards whininess sometimes and yet that only seems to rear its ugly head when it has to do with other people. Somehow when it's about himself, he's really good at putting on a brave face.

 

She sits down on the bed next to him, touches his cheek and his skin is cool.

 

“You remember much about yesterday?”

 

He shrugs. “I remember that asshole shot me and then a lot of explosions. I remember you carrying me around…”

 

“Yeah… that was fun.”

 

“I’ve been watching what I eat, could you tell?”

 

She snorts and he reaches out and takes her hand. No clammy skin, no weak grip and again she’s immensely grateful to Curits because they might think he’s only a physician here but she’s pretty sure he’s a miracle worker.

 

But she still doesn’t really believe in miracles. Not really. Not yet.

 

“I don’t remember much after that,” Foggy says. “I think I started hallucinating.”

 

“How come?”

 

He gives her a sheepish grin.

 

“I saw that ship,” he says. “The one from the stories. The  _ Mea Culpa _ ,” he chuckles. “I thought they said your life flashes before your eyes when you’re dying, but unless I’m a pirate in another life then I don’t know…”

 

“Foggy…”

 

“But it was there and it had these big sails and the men from it were swinging onto the deck… it was so vivid…”

 

“Foggy…”

 

“And then I even saw that Punisher captain... and get this… you were standing in his way and telling him off… and he was listening.”

 

“Foggy…”

 

He stops, looks around the room. “So where are we anyway, that Curtis guy wouldn’t tell me anything…”

 

~~~

 

It takes a long time to calm him down. So long in fact that Curtis nearly resorts to chloroform out of fear that Foggy will damage himself further. But eventually she’s got him back in bed and Curtis has checked and rechecked his wound to make sure he doesn’t need new stitches. He’s also made some not so subtle threats about possibly handcuffing him to the headboard if he refuses to stay still. 

 

She didn’t think Curtis, with his gentle face and sweet demeanour, had it in him, but when he says it she has no doubt he will follow through if needs be. 

 

He leaves them for a second time but he’s wary and promises to be in the room next door checking on the dog if she needs him.

 

“Don’t make me need him,” she says sternly as she sits down at Foggy’s bedside again and he gives her a sour look. “Just listen to me and for heaven’s sake try and stay calm. You’ll do no one any good by getting worked up.”

 

He frowns at her.

 

“I don’t know how  _ you’re _ so calm Karen,” he says. “You’ve just told me that not only is The Punisher and his godforsaken dead ship real but that we are on it. If even one percent of the stories are true...”

 

“Foggy,” she touches his arm and he looks down at her hand as if he’s not really sure it’s her that’s touching him. “Foggy, I need you to listen to me and I need you to believe me. We  _ are _ safe. Right now, we are safer than we were since we started this trip.”

 

“How can you even say that?” he asks shifting on the bed and she pushes him down again, eyes him sternly.

 

“I can say that because today you are alive and you’re not bleeding. You’re being cared for and so am I and no one is trying to kidnap or kill us. And we both have the men on this godforsaken dead ship to thank for it.”

 

He glowers at her, turns his head to stare out of the window.

 

“Foggy… Foggy come on. Please.”

 

He looks at her out of the corner of his eye for a very long time.

 

“Okay,” he says eventually. “Okay, tell me what happened. Tell me everything. I’ll try and keep it together.”

 

She’s tried not to think too much about yesterday. Not necessarily because she doesn’t want to relive it but because there were just so many things that went wrong and when she starts down the path of “what ifs” they all end badly. As much as it frightens her to admit it, the reason they’re both alive and not also visiting in Davy Jones’ locker alongside James Wesley … or worse, captives of the admiral for whatever reason he wanted them, is because The Punisher decided he needed to murder Mr Grotto.

 

But at the same time, they are in this together and it isn’t like she’s had much choice in any of it.

 

“Alright,” she says. “But you stay there and no more freak outs.”

 

He nods and she almost believes him.

 

She tells him pretty much everything and she doesn’t spare the details -  just because lying is currency doesn’t mean she has to buy, so she is as truthful as she can be. She starts with how the the Punisher attacked Wesley’s ship, how it was sinking, how he killed Grotto - she doesn’t spare the details on that either - and then how they brought him onto the ship and Curtis spent a good portion of the day and night saving his life. She tells him that she spoke to the captain, that he asked her questions and didn’t give many answers of his own, but he did fix her hand and this morning he did tell the crew that the two of them were his guests and he was going to see them as far as the Caribbean and make sure they got safe passage back to New York. She tells him that despite everything the captain was kind and while she’s not sure she  _ should  _ trust him,  she doesn’t see any reason not to. Not at this point anyway.

 

“Except for the fact that he killed Grotto,” Foggy says incredulously.

 

“For reasons we don't fully understand,” she shoots back.

 

“It doesn't matter Karen, he murdered him.”

 

“Well I murdered James Wesley,” she says.

 

“For reasons we  _ fully _ understand,” he shakes his head. “We  _ have  _ to get off this ship Karen. You see that don’t you?”

 

“And go where Foggy?” she sits back, crosses her arms across her chest. “Where exactly are we going to go? I can’t navigate. We are in the middle of the ocean and neither of us are sailors. Here we have food and shelter and a promise of safe passage. Out there we are at best shark bait.”

 

“At what cost though? What is this man asking you for to keep you  _ safe _ ?” he leans on the word and she feels that quiet annoyance in her belly turning into something else. Something deeper and darker and it scalds her more than it should.

 

“Damnit Foggy!” she says. “Nothing. He's asked nothing of me. Nothing at all. In fact he's given me a room that locks and a…” she stops suddenly unsure of whether she should tell him about the clean and loaded pistol pressed against the small of her back.

 

“A what?”

 

“A room that's one of the best on the ship.”

 

“Oh I'm sure he has. Probably close to his rooms too. And what's a lock when a man has a key?”

 

“He's not like that Foggy!” And now she does feel angry and she doesn't want to sit anymore, she doesn't want to be here listening to this from him, from Foggy of all people.

 

She stands, turns away from him and walks to the window, stares out at the sea. It's a deep deep blue today, almost navy. No hints of teal or aqua and she thinks the captain might tell her that means something, that she needs to expect a storm or a meteor, that they're getting closer to land or further out to sea.

 

“How do you know Karen?” Foggy asks.

 

She closes her eyes. The truth is that she doesn't. She doesn't know at all. She feels it. She feels his decency and the only way Foggy is going to understand why is by spending time with him.

 

“I don't Foggy,” she says turning to him. “I don't know at all. I've had two conversations with him and I'm sure there are many people out there who have had the same and come to different conclusions. But he's been good to us. He saved you and me and he's made me a promise and yes, he might well break it but I don't think we have any choice right now other than to wait and see if he does.”

 

She feels the fight go out of her with the last word. He takes this as it is or he leaves it, and he can't leave it. Not without finding them cast adrift with nothing.

 

He sees it too. Foggy might have a whiny grumpy edge, he might veer into offended, affronted territory more often than he should, but he's not stupid. Not at all.

 

He falls back against his pillows, stares at the ceiling for a few very long minutes, exists with her in that strangely unquiet silence, wind blowing, waves lapping.

 

And then. “Damnit Karen I'm supposed to be protecting you.”

 

She smiles sadly. “You have. You are. You got shot for me Foggy…”

 

He sighs. “And yet, you're the one that doesn't need protection. I am.”

 

He thinks he's failed and it breaks her heart. 

 

She goes to him, takes his hands, squeezes them in her own. He has tears in his eyes and she wants to wipe them away but she doesn't.

 

“Foggy, you have been so brave. No one could ask for more. No one.”

 

He looks away but he doesn't let her go.

 

“Matt told me to look after you. He trusted me,” he says and that annoyance that's been simmering in her belly turns to full blown anger, but not at him this time.

 

“Matt couldn't even be bothered to be here himself Foggy,” she snaps. “You don't let him make you feel like you're not good enough.”

 

That shuts him up and the expression on his face is utterly confused.

 

“Karen, I… what?”

 

She's overstepped. Whatever happened between her and Matt it's been clear since Foggy arrived in Buenos Aires that he doesn't know about it. He thinks they're strong. Intended. About to embark on some big adventure where they make lives and children together. He thinks it's settled and the truth is that what her and Matt have is about as far from settled as it could be. 

 

And she doesn't want to tell him. Not like this. Not when it can hurt this much.

 

“Foggy,” she says before he can speak, voice softer now. “Please, I know this is a lot to deal with but right now, we are in a better position than we were before. Frank Castle is taking us to Barbados and from there we can go back to New York. It's a few weeks and then this nightmare will be over.” She stops, touches his face. “You saved my life before, let me save yours now. Trust me on this please.”

 

He has no choice. He knows he doesn't.

 

So he nods, squeezes her hand.

 

“Alright,” and his eyes are sharp. “ But Karen, from this moment onwards there are no secrets between us. Anything you do or say to the captain and anything he does or says to you, you tell me. We're a team okay?”

 

It's a lot to ask and at the same time not even remotely enough. She feels the pressure of the pistol against the small of her back, she hears those last awful conversations with Matt playing in her head and she wonders how much longer she can keep this from him before it really does become a lie. 

 

She'll tell him. She will. Just not now. 

 

She leans forward, kisses him on the forehead. 

 

“We're a team,” she agrees.

 

~~~

 

The captain calls her to his quarters later that afternoon. It looks the same as it did before, except for a pile of books on the desk and she notes the photograph is still wedged into the side of the map. 

 

He asks after Foggy and she tells him that he's doing alright but is understandably wary of the fact that he's now on a ship that he thought and hoped was nothing more than a legend.

 

“You tell him I don't bite?” 

 

“I'm not so sure you don't Captain,” she says split seconds before she realises how such a thing might sound to a man who has seen nothing but sea and death for weeks on end. He doesn't make any comment on it but he does smirk and she supposes she can't blame him for that.

 

“Your room is ready,” he says. “It’s the one right outside here on the left. When your friend is well enough he can move into the quarters on the other side of Billy Russo’s room.”

 

He reaches into one of his desk draws and gives her a key. It's big and made of brass, tied with a leather strap and it feels heavy in her hands.

 

“The other one is in the safe. You have my word that no one else will have access to it and that I will only use it if there is an emergency… and only things like fires, ships attacking or you being otherwise incapacitated count as emergencies.”

 

“Thank you,” she says. “For everything. You have been very good to us.”

 

He gives her that odd look again. She guesses he doesn't get complimented often. She guesses that most of the time there isn't much to compliment.

 

“David says he offered you some books yesterday,” he says changing the subject.

 

She nods. “I was a little too stressed to read.”

 

“Well he left some here,” he inclines his head towards the pile of books on his desk. “If you want to choose a few or take them all, you can.”

 

She gives him a small smile and picks up the first one. It has a gold embossed cover with a stencil of a sultry looking woman on it. It's called  _ The Deed of Caroline _ . The next one is blue with no picture but it's called  _ Redemption of Love _ .

 

She glances at the captain.

 

“Does Mr Lieberman have some very fixed ideas on what women read or is this from his private collection? The ones he thinks are worth sharing?”

 

He grins. “David is weird. Probably reads these in the tub at night…”

 

She chuckles and he steps around the desk to look at the map. She spares a thought for how interesting it is that he's exposed his back to her like that, knowing - as he must - that the pistol is so close and if she wanted to she could use it.

 

_ And where would that get you Karen? _ She asks herself.  _ Not only is it something you don't actually want to do, it's an entirely stupid idea. And he'll know that. _

 

She shakes her head, turns her attention to the task at hand.

 

The rest of the books are more of the same. She thinks she even sees a few that have been banned in Europe, said to cause a rift in society and a upheaval of the social order.

 

And then, as she reaches the bottom of the pile, she sees a small brown book with a torn leather cover and yellowed pages. It doesn't look like a novel, not at all in fact. It has no title, no markings, no cover images either.

 

She pulls it out and opens it, flips through the dog-eared pages. They're filled with strange symbols and occasionally a word or letter she recognises.

 

“Found something you like?” The captain asks without turning around. 

 

She shakes her head. “No, it's just this is very strange. I haven’t seen one of these in…”

 

He abandons the map and comes to stand behind her, squints at the pages.

 

“Oh,” he says. “I don't think David meant to put this in the pile.”

 

His voice has taken on a strange quality. It's not quite trembling but there is a on edge of worry in it.

 

“What does he use it for?” She asks as he takes it out of her hands.

 

“Nothing,” he says as he shuts it firmly and locks it in his desk. “David has a lot of junk. This is just more junk.”

 

She frowns, folds her arms across her chest.

 

“I didn’t ask what it is,” she says. “I asked what he uses it for. I know what it is.”

 

“You do?”

 

“It's a codebreaker,” she says.

 

He looks at her sharply and she knows she's hit on something. Maybe something small but something nonetheless.

 

“Well, if you know what it is, then it seems to me you know what he uses it for.”

 

“Why?” she asks. “What code is he trying to break?”

 

“David has a couple of strange hobbies,” he says. “It wouldn't surprise me if that was one of them.”

 

Not a lie. Not really. But a half truth. A deflection.

 

“Cryptography?”

 

“Among other things.” 

 

“I thought he was the cook.”

 

“He  _ is _ the cook.”

 

“And yet he has the same status as your physician and your XO.” She gestures vaguely in the direction of Mr Lieberman’s room. “Unusual.”

 

“Is it now?” he sounds mildly annoyed by her questioning but he's also teasing and his voice is amused. “Didn't know you were an expert on cryptography  _ and _ pirate ships Miss Page.”

 

“I'm not,” she says. “But I'm also not a fool.”

 

“No,” he says. “No you're not. But we ain’t talking about this anymore. What David does is David’s business.”

 

And that’s not exactly forthright either. She doesn’t think anyone gets to do anything on this ship that isn’t explicitly endorsed by Frank Castle and she wonders why he’s so cagey about this, what big secret him and Mr Lieberman are hiding. A million questions crowd into her head at once and she opens her mouth to ask the first one but he shakes his head and goes to the door.

 

“Come on Miss Page, your cabin is ready,” he says.

 

“But…”

 

“I promise you, there are a million more interesting things to talk about than David Lieberman.” 

 

And, as she follows him to her quarters, she’s pretty sure that’s the first and biggest actual lie he’s told her.


	5. Saving lives and taking names

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay. Hope you enjoy.

Two days later and David doesn't have anything new to report except for the fact that the scroll Frank found in the Admiral’s office does indeed seem to be an instruction of some sort.

 

“Come on David, codes are your thing. You want to tell me you can't break this?”

 

They're standing in Frank's quarters, Russ snoring on the mat and the other dog, who Frank’s affectionately called Bones for now, sitting huddled in a corner. He takes a second to drag his attention and ire away from David and glance at her.

 

He can’t deny that he's worried. Curtis said she might be okay if she eats, if she lets her body get strong again, if she has endless amounts of care. He's trying but so far none of those things seems to be happening.

 

Frank knows that sometimes you need to be cruel to be kind. He hopes now isn't one of those times.

 

“It's nothing like I've seen before,” David says, eyeing the bottle of rum still on the desk. Frank sees him and puts it away in the cabinet, locks it and David rolls his eyes.

 

“Come on Frank it was one time,” he says.

 

“Yes and that was enough.”

 

“You want to tell me you've never done anything stupid when you're drunk.”

 

“Not that stupid.”

 

David sighs, runs a hand through his hair.

 

“One time Frank…”

 

Frank frowns at him, purses his lips. “Maybe you should be worrying more about your job and less about rum. There's a very big ocean outside.”

 

He flicks his hand towards the window and David shakes his head.

 

“You wouldn't dare.”

 

“Wouldn't I?”

 

“No you wouldn't.”

 

David's right, but the slight tremble in his voice shows he's not 100% sure he is.

 

“So,” Frank sits down at his desk, pulls out the captain's log and jots down a few notes. “If you've got nothing, why are you here?”

 

“Well there is one thing,” David says and Frank looks up.

 

"Go on," Frank says when David lets the silence stretch. "Or do you need a written invitation?"

 

David looks like he's about to retort with something rude or mean but thinks the better of it and shakes his head. "There is one symbol in the code that keeps repeating. It looks like a two perpendicular lines with triangles attached, like this,” he makes some looping symbols in the air. “Keeps repeating over and over.”

 

“What's it mean?”

 

“I don't know,” David says patiently. “I don't know what kind of a code I'm even dealing with. I haven't cracked it yet.”

 

“Take a guess.”

 

“It doesn't work like that Frank. It could be numeric, alphabetic, geometric, pictographic or a combination of…”

 

“There a lot of numbers?”

 

“No…”

 

“A lot of letters?”

 

“No… but…”

 

“Well, looks like I just cut your work down by half then. Come on David, you know what's at stake.”

 

David runs a hand through his hair.

 

“I did,” he says. “But now I'm not sure.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“Well I'm not actually doing the work I'm supposed to be doing am I? I'm now worrying about some woman you dragged out of the sea.”

 

“Oh for Christ’s sake…”

 

“No I'm right Frank. We have no reason to be digging around in this. The admiral is dead, he's not going to be looking for her…”

 

“Yeah, what if someone else is?”

 

David throws up his hands and pulls at his hair.

 

“Frank, that's like asking what if the moon is made of cheese or if all dogs know they're good dogs…” he stops, glances at Russ and Bones. “Sorry, you do probably ask yourself that.”

 

_Goddamn._

 

Frank sighs. “James Wesley isn't known for hanging around this far south. But he's here specifically to kidnap a woman he has no business with for no reason. Aren't you a little interested in why?”

 

“Well not nearly as interested as you,” David says pointedly.

 

“Oh for the love of...,” Frank stands up and heads over to the window.

 

He appreciates what David does but sometimes he’d happily attach him to the anchor with that goddamn guitar and leave them both at the bottom of the ocean.

 

Happily.

 

No regrets.

 

But, all that aside, the truth is that on some level David is right. There _isn’t_ really much cause to be digging into why James Wesley was so interested in Miss Page and her companion. And it is taking time away from other work. Frank’s not even sure he can call it professional curiosity at this point.

 

He sighs, rubs the back of his head and glances out the window. It's a clear day outside and even though he’s pretty sure there’ll still be a storm or two, it's only going to get clearer and nicer as they approach Barbados. Something about that makes him sad - melancholy almost. Maria always wanted to go somewhere in the sunlight, said the New York cold got into her bones, left chills in her hands far into the summer and all she really wanted to do was find somewhere where that didn’t happen and she could find warmth outside as well as in. They never went though. She deserved to go. They all did.  

 

He glances at the picture stuck into the side of the map, doesn’t care if David sees. It's fluttering gently in the breeze. Sometimes he wonders why he still keeps it there because it's not really a reminder of anything at all. He knows what they look like, every line of their faces is etched into his mind. And yet he thinks maybe he likes the feeling that she's watching him. It keeps him focused and alert. It stops him from getting distracted.

 

Except apparently it's failing a bit lately. He knows David would agree.

 

Miss Page.

 

Miss Page is a problem. Miss Page and her silver pistol. He wonders what she suspects. He's fairly sure she's smart enough to have put a number of things together already - he's also fairly sure she hasn't actually spoken to anyone on the ship about him. She tends to keep to herself and Mr Nelson. And he thinks that she might find it to be a little unfair and improper to ask too many questions of the crew. She said she wants to hear his story from him and while he's not really sure that will ever happen, he appreciates the sentiment.

 

And then he wonders why this bothers him so much. It isn't like she's going to be around for much longer... And that in itself is a whole other level of drama he's not sure he wants to spend too much time thinking about.

 

He blinks hard, turns his attention back to David.

 

“Look Frank, I'll keep digging at it, but after we drop them in Barbados it's back to business. We can get some news there from the real world and we still have a deal…”

 

David twists the ring on his finger and Frank's fairly sure the gesture is more of a pointed reminder for him personally than just a habit of David’s. Because ultimately, at the end of the day when all is said and done, David Lieberman is a passive aggressive asshole. And he’d never say it - there’s not a situation on Earth that would force the words out of his mouth - but he gets it. He does.

 

It's hard to be away from the people you love after all.

 

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, we do. Of course.”

 

“Okay then.”

 

“Thanks,” he says distractedly. “Oh and David…”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Maybe you can't break the code because you lost this.” He goes to his draw, pulls out the small book that had intrigued Miss Page. “She saw it, started asking all kinds of questions… felt like I was on trial. She doesn't miss much.”

 

“Thanks,” David takes the book, flips through the pages. “This isn't going to help figure out anything about her though or that symbol...”

 

He heads to the door and, as Frank watches the back of his head, something slips into place.

 

_Matt… my intended…_

 

He remembers how her voice grated on the word.

 

_He's a lawyer._

 

“Hey, David, that symbol ... the triangles… could it be a scale?”

 

David stops, considers for a second. “I guess it could be … if it's a pictographic code. What are you thinking?”

 

“Miss Page’s… betrothed…” and he's a little surprised by the way the word sticks on his tongue too. “... is a law man, a lawyer. So is Mr Nelson. Scales of justice and all.”

 

David lifts an eyebrow, purses his lips. “That's a really good thought Frank.”

 

“Yeah I'm not just a pretty face.”

 

“Not even,” David says without missing a beat. “You think he had something to do with this? Doesn't seem like a very nice thing to do to the woman you plan on marrying.”

 

Frank shrugs.

 

“Unlikely. He sounds like an asshole but getting her kidnapped in the middle of an ocean sounds a little bit elaborate if all he wanted to do was end it with her. Besides something happened between the two of them before she left and she's not exactly jumping up and down at the idea of going back to him. If he didn't want her back, he could have just let whatever they had die.”

 

“Something happened,” David repeats. It's not a question. It's more like a point and Frank isn't an idiot, he knows exactly what David is implying about the relative closeness of his relationship with Miss Page after only a few days.

 

He chooses, however, to pretend there was a big fat question mark at the end of the sentence.

 

“Yes asshole. Something happened and she hasn't seen him for two years. It wouldn't have been hard to let whatever they had die a slow death. And what kind of an asshole then sends his best friend as collateral damage?

 

“Honestly, this fiance sounds like he needs someone to sit him down and explain a few facts to him…”

 

“And you think that someone is you?” David interrupts.

 

“No I don't think it's me,” Frank snaps. “Jesus Christ David, can you focus for a second? All I mean is that he doesn't sound great but it would be extremely far-fetched to imagine that he's involved on that level.”

 

“Alright,” David holds up his hand. “So what do you think it means? If that is a scale and it is related to this man friend of hers, then how do you think it fits together?”

 

“I don't know. Maybe we'd know more if someone cracked the damn code, because it seems like somehow I'm the only one working on that.”

 

“Okay okay,” David shakes his head. “I'm going to go and give this another shot and then afterwards I want to talk to her, see what I can find out.”

 

Frank eyes him warily. It's not that he doesn't trust David - in a strange way he trusts David more than anyone else on this ship, but he finds it unlikely that David won't give himself away. He’s smart and subtle but Miss Page is too and he doesn't want her to know yet about the papers he found.

 

“Yeah, okay. Just go easy. She'll figure you out soon enough.”

 

David shoots him a concerned look. “I hope not. Can't have her blabbing to the crew.”

 

“Well then you're going to have to be careful aren't you?” Frank snaps, glances at the book in David's hands. “And stop leaving your shit lying around.”

 

David rolls his eyes again but he doesn't say anything as he heads to the door and back to his cabin shutting the door with a loud thud behind him.

 

~~~

 

Alone, Frank watches Bones for a few minutes. She's quiet, unmoved. Her eyes are dead and her body is sore. He knows how she feels. He knows _exactly_ how she feels.

 

He goes to her, bends down on his haunches and touches her head and her skin is hot and feverish but even so he gets almost no reaction. She sits. She takes it. He thinks it probably doesn't matter much what he does. Kindness and cruelty will get much the same reaction.

 

“What are we gonna do with you Bones?” he asks.

 

Bones has no answer.

 

He leaves her, goes to look at the map. He thinks three weeks is a safe guess to get to Barbados. They could use the engines but the wind is in their favour right now. The problem is of course what comes after Barbados.

 

There's every chance Billy will get them a couple of bounties there, a few bad men to fill the hours while David does his work and Frank announces to the crew they have another piece of shit to track down which is off the bounty books. He always finds an excuse to explain how he knows about them - that's apparently non negotiable with David - but he's fairly sure Billy and Curtis and the more astute crew members don't believe him.

 

Miss Page wouldn't believe him. He has no idea why the idea of this hypothetical lie bothers him so much.

 

Then again it doesn't really matter because they'll be parting ways with Miss Page in Barbados and that brings up a whole other set of worries, not least of which is if she’ll make it to New York safe and sound.

 

He’d be lying if he said that he hadn't considered taking her home himself. Stop in Barbados and resupply and then just carry on going north until they get to the Hudson, send her up there in a riverboat or something, maybe even escort them himself.

 

He's not sure how Foggy would feel about that though and while Frank has never really been one to worry about nonsense like that, he can't really expect Miss Page to side with him over her best friend, especially considering the circumstances.

 

Either way he resolves to get them the best, safest ride home that he can and he thinks he's going to need to sit them both down and discuss it properly. Because, while she hasn’t said anything, she must be worried about how she's going to pay her way home, considering absolutely everything she has in the world - including an engagement ring - is at the bottom of the ocean. It’s something he needs to do soon. It’s something he needs to sort out before it gets more difficult.

 

And he knows about difficult.

 

But not now. It can wait.

 

He rubs at his eyes. He's tired. He didn't sleep much. He seldom does these days.

 

He sighs, eyes drawn back to the picture on the map. He reaches up, touches the mottled, bubbled paper. It's only a few days since Grotto and he's already finding himself feeling anxious and that familiar rage is slowly starting to fill his lungs and mind again.

 

It’s happening faster and faster lately; the reprieves getting shorter and shorter. He used to get a week after he killed one of them, sometimes more where he could just take a moment to breathe and regroup before shooting off to go and find the next piece of scum responsible for the inward collapse of his life and outward collapse of his person. Now he’s lucky if he gets more than one night before he starts prowling the passages and the deck, before his fingers start twitching and it becomes hard to concentrate on anything else.

 

He thinks it’s because they’re building up to something now, heading towards the end of all this. And that’s not an academic conclusion, it’s more just a feeling in his bones, a kind of sixth sense that comes with years of battle-hardened intuition under his belt.

 

He hasn’t told anyone this. He can’t really because of David and his goddamn rules, but he knows it like he does his own name. Like he does hers.

 

_Maria._

 

_Mea Culpa._

 

_I’m sorry._

 

She doesn’t want apologies though. She wants blood. She wants revenge. Both of these things are lies though because he knows deep down inside it isn’t her.

 

It’s him.

 

He rubs his eyes again, stifles a yawn. While sleeping might be getting hard again, dreaming is worse because he never knows what he's going to get.

 

Some nights he gets her and she’s sweet and she’s kind and her laughter fills his head and stays with him long into the waking hours. But that’s unfortunately not how usually goes. Usually it’s their three bodies laid out next to each other, blood dripping out of the backs of their heads dribbling down over piles and piles of gold. And then the drip becomes a splash and the splash a wave and suddenly he's on the ocean and it's made of blood and he can see their dead faces just below the surface and they're screaming and begging and there's nothing he can do because he can't walk, because he's chest high in gold and he can't move.

 

And then mercifully he's awake again. It's always the same. It's always terribly horribly the same.

 

That hasn’t happened yet, but it will. Soon.

 

There isn't enough blood in the world to satisfy her.

 

He tells himself this but deep down he knows it isn’t her.

 

It isn't her at all.

 

He's one man and he's screaming into a void and the void isn't even bothering to open up and let him.

 

 _Maria_.

 

He touches her face again. He doesn't know why. It doesn't feel like her face. It's cool bubbled paper, waxy. She was warm and smooth, something slow and gentle in his arms which took away the chill of the ocean slowly and surely.

 

She isn't here now.

 

Nothing is here now.

 

~~~

 

He waits another day, asks Curtis how Mr Nelson is doing and, since he's apparently doing well enough to sit up and eat, Frank figures he could probably handle a visitor that isn't Miss Page.

 

So he heads down to the infirmary, knocks softly on the door and walks into the room.

 

Miss Page is sitting cross-legged on a small stool next to the bed. Her sleeves are rolled up and she’s taken her boots off and he can see them discarded in the corner next to the window.

 

That strikes him as unusual but then she's not a damsel in distress and maybe she's not that much of a lady either.

 

She usually takes lunch and dinner in here and he guesses it only makes sense that she doesn't want to spend too much time in the mess hall and it doesn't matter much either. Most of the crew only stop by the mess hall at midday to grab something and move straight back to whatever they were doing.

 

She looks up at him, about to say something and then her mouth snaps shut and he's fairly certain she was expecting Curtis.

 

“Miss Page,” he says inclining his head to her. “Mr Nelson.”

 

Foggy for his part doesn't do anything except stare, eyes wide, mouth hanging open and the spoon full of soup Miss Page is holding out to him hovering in the air inches from his face. If he turned his head now he'd knock it all over the sheets.

 

Frank has to admit he is indeed looking better than he was the last time he saw him, but most things look better than a man bleeding out all over your ship, delirious and barely able to stand. Truthfully he didn't actually expect Foggy to survive the bullet wound. Then again, Frank's survived bullet wounds he never should have, so maybe Mr Nelson is also blessed - or cursed - with that very specific trait.

 

Either way, the strange silence is starting to stretch a little and even though it's sunny and bright and maybe a little too warm in the room, he can sense a certain darkness in the air, a similar tension to what he resolved with Miss Page easily the first night she was here.

 

“Captain,” she says and Foggy mumbles something he doesn't quite hear but he thinks that is probably for the best but he doesn't miss the way she glares at him.

 

He chooses to ignore it.

 

“How do you feel Mr Nelson?” he asks indicating to Miss Page to stay seated as she replaces the spoon in the soup bowl and makes to stand.

 

“With my hands,” Foggy replies evenly.

 

“Foggy…”

 

Miss Page sighs and rolls her eyes and even though Frank knows Mr Nelson is doing his best to stare him down, he can see he's amused by his own joke. Him and David would either love one another or there'd be a man overboard before they reach Barbados.

 

“Alright,” he says, biting down on the inside of his cheek to stop a smile. “I'm Captain Frank Castle. I'm sure Miss Page has filled you in on all the details.”

 

He leaves that there, lets Mr Nelson figure out whether he wants to pursue it or not.

 

Apparently, he doesn't.

 

“Look, I don't know what stories you've heard and I don't care. My physician saved your life.” He pauses, waits a few moments for it to sink in. "You are safe and welcome on my ship as long as you don't do anything to endanger my men.”

 

Foggy purses his lips, looks down at himself.

 

“I don't think there's much chance of that,” he says. “We don't have a butter knife between the two of us.”

 

Frank glances at Miss Page and when her eyes meet his, he knows she hasn't told Foggy about the pistol, that it's hidden underneath that too big shirt she's wearing, tucked snug against the small of her back. Briefly an image flickers into his head of the two of them standing on the deck of _Scylla_ , the explosions and the fire, the splash of waves and the caw of the gulls; and then his hand sliding down her back and his fingers closing on warm metal. She smelled of blood and gunsmoke, sweat, but her hair was scented with lilies and her body was warm and soft against his.

 

He drags his eyes away from hers but he'd be a fool to think Mr Nelson missed it, and, even though he knows full well it's not working, he's trying so hard not to be foolish.

 

“There are plenty of butter knives in the mess hall,” Frank says. “When you're well enough, you can take your pick.”

 

Foggy clears his throat loudly but doesn't say anything and Frank catches Miss Page’s eye again and gives her a tiny smile.

 

“Alright,” Frank says. “So we are heading to the Caribbean, as I am sure you know. The wind is good and I'm guessing we should be there in about two to three weeks. From there you should be able to charter a ship north to New York.”

 

“You’ll let us go?” Foggy asks and Frank frowns.

 

“Yes, I’ll let you go Mr Nelson,” he says incredulously. “You’re not prisoners.”

 

Foggy glances at Karen and she scowls at him and it doesn’t take a genius to guess that they’ve had this conversation over and over and made very little headway.

 

“Alright,” Frank continues. “You're both under my protection yeah? So until such time as you set course to New York. I will help you find suitable and safe transport and I will pay for your journey home -”

 

Both Miss Page and Mr Nelson start talking at the same time, objecting furiously; Miss Page telling him she can't accept any more of his generosity and Mr Nelson asking exactly what The Punisher expects from them in return. And he knows with the way Foggy says _them_ , he means Miss Page and he feels a flare of anger at that but he bites it back and chews on the inside of his cheek until they're quiet again.

 

“Mr Nelson-”

 

“Matt will pay,” Foggy says. “If we can just get to him, he will settle any debt.”

 

“You will never find a captain in Barbados willing to take you on your word,” Frank says. “That is not something that can happen.”

 

“Come on, you don’t know that.”

 

“Yeah I do. My men and I spend a lot of time in the Caribbean between jobs. We have contacts there and people don’t ask questions but I have never met anyone who would take that kind of risk or wouldn’t demand some kind of other payment. He’d be a fool and the Caribbean does not suffer fools lightly,” His eyes flicker to Miss Page and while Mr Nelson misses it this time, she most certainly does not.

 

“Look, we can’t just take your gold…”

 

“You can and you will. This ain’t a debate.”

 

“You can’t just-” Foggy begins.

 

“Yes I can,” Frank shakes his head and tries not to let the exasperation seep into his voice. “If we do it any other way, I may as well throw the both of you overboard now because you’re as good as dead and drowning will be less painful.”

 

Firm. Final.

 

Harsh.

 

It seems to have the desired effect though. They both shut up even though Mr Nelson lies in his bed, mouth opening and closing like a fish and Miss Page’s brow knits and her lips set in a straight line.

 

It doesn’t matter. None of what they say matters. He isn’t wasting his time saving their lives and getting them to a place of relative safety just to see it all go up in smoke and spend his life wondering if they ever made it home or if they came to a worse fate than falling in with him.

 

When no one says anything further he takes a step towards the door, pulls it open and feels a cool breeze rushing in from the passageway.

 

“Mr Nelson, when Curtis says you are well enough, I have a room prepared for you near mine.”

 

He nods to Miss Page and she looks like she’s about to say something but seems to be either trying to bite it back or think of a way to rephrase it into something more palatable, but he decides not to wait around and give her the chance.

 

“Have a good day,” he says.

 

The door shuts with a soft click but not before he hears Mr Nelson muttering something under his breath that sounds very much like “Thanks, I have other plans.”

 

~~~

 

Miss Page comes to him later. He knew she would. He’d been waiting for her and the only thing that surprised him was how long she took. He guesses that maybe she needed time to plot and plan and figure out exactly what she was going to say, practice it a few times in her head and turn whatever reasoning she had into something that sounded logical and reasonable that he couldn’t say no to.

 

But he _can_ say no to her. Over something like this it’s easy.

 

So he’s quite surprised when her argument is nothing of the sort. He’s quite surprised that it isn’t really an argument at all.

 

She catches him as he’s leaving the mess hall with Billy, asks if she can speak to him alone and Billy raises his eyebrows, makes more of a thing out of it than he needs to. But that’s Billy and Billy’s an ass and he wouldn’t have expected anything else.

 

“Sweet dreams Frank,” Billy says as he makes his way up to the deck. “If dreaming’s what you do.”

 

He’s about to tell Billy in no uncertain terms that he isn’t above putting him on deck cleaning duty, but he’s already three-quarters of the way up the ladder and Miss Page is heading in the opposite direction towards the stairs to the gundeck and he wonders why she didn’t just wait until he was back in his quarters where they could talk alone. And then he wonders if he hasn’t just answered his own question.

 

For a second he just stands there outside the mess hall, caught between the two of them and then shakes his head, lets his annoyance at Billy go and follows Miss Page.

 

They walk a little way, just far enough into the shadows so as to be inconspicuous but not invisible. And then she stops and turns to him, looks him straight in the eye.

 

“So Foggy is upset,” she says and he rolls his eyes. While he’s not expecting or wanting gratitude from Mr Nelson, he would have hoped he’d be a little more pragmatic about their circumstances, such as they are.

 

“Ma’am, if Mr Nelson being upset is the price of seeing you home safely, it ain’t even a question.”

 

The fact is he’s pretty sure she knows this already. She can’t possibly think anything else. She’s been perfectly aware of what he circumstances are since the minute she set foot on this ship and that hasn’t changed.

 

She bites her bottom lip, looks away.

 

“You don't need to do this, you know? You don't need to pay our way.”

 

Except he does. He really does. Because more than anything he can’t have more innocent blood on his hands. He wonders if he should just tell her everything; explain why he does what he does, why he’s here and everything he’s lost in the process, but the truth is he doesn’t know where he’d start. He doesn’t know if he can. His story isn’t one he’s ever truly had to tell anyone. Everyone who knows the whole truth of it - Curtis, David, Billy, one or two others - never needed to be told. They either saw it or they knew. They were there. But sitting down and telling someone about it, actually saying the words, isn’t something he’s ever done and he doesn’t know if he has it in him to try.

 

He sighs, runs a hand over his head. “What are you going to do if I don't? The Caribbean ain't exactly known for doing people favours and you will never ever find someone willing to take you to New York on the off chance your fiance will pay him back after the fact.”

 

“Captain… it just feels wrong taking your hospitality and your gold. If you’re intent on doing this at least give us a way to make it up to you and pay you back.”

 

Gold. Yes, gold. That’s always the root of it.

 

He barks out a laugh.

 

“I'm a pirate Miss Page, what makes you think I'm short on gold?”

 

He doesn't know why he's trying for levity but he is and it's not working and he can see she's distressed which makes no sense and perfect sense at the same time. Karen Page isn't used to having things done for her, she isn't used to people making decisions for her and the idea makes her uneasy, which once again begs the question of why she's doing what's expected of her and running back to a man she has so many reservations about.

 

“It’s just… it's not fair on you,” she says. “You've got this ship and this crew and now us…”

 

“Ma'am-”

 

“And you've done so much already and…”

 

“Ma'am-”

 

“We can find a way to get back ourselves or…”

 

“Ma’am-”

 

“... or repay you. Matt could send you the money or…”

 

“Karen.”

 

_Karen._

 

It’s not loud or angry. If anything he’s thrown a mildness into his voice that he isn’t actually feeling but it sucks all the air out of the world, clogs the back of his throat with something he thought he’d forgotten. Two small syllables. Two tiny sounds that he put together in his head and then into words and it feels like it’s changed everything.

 

Immediately, her mouth snaps shut and her eyes go wide, flashing like sapphires in the deep shadows.

 

_Karen..._

 

There it is, and it shouldn’t be. Not on this ship. Not here in the ocean where the spectre of who they are back on the land pulls at them both like a dark vortex.

 

Scylla and Charybdis indeed. Both choices which aren’t choices at all.

 

For what seems like a very long time, although he’s fairly sure it’s not, neither of them say anything. He can hear voices from the mess hall, the clang of cutlery and the occasional outburst of laughter. Someone - he thinks it's Shark-Bait Jonny - starts singing a bawdy song and someone else tells him to shut up. Outside he can hear waves breaking on the side of the ship - the sea has been choppy all day and he suspects those storms he thought were on the horizon could be imminent - and some gulls cawing into the night sky.

 

_Karen..._

 

He tells himself it’s not a big thing. It’s not big at all. It’s her name. The one given to her by her mother and the world she lives in. Using it shouldn’t feel like it’s important. Using it shouldn’t feel any different from the “ma’am” or “Miss Page” he’s been using up until now. But “should” and “is” are two very different concepts and he knows in his bones that this is significant, that it means something more than both of them want it to.

 

Either way they both take the moment, her looking at the floor, him looking at her looking at the floor. The floor just kind of being as uninteresting and as floor-like as it can.

 

There’s no fight left to be had. It isn’t even a matter of winning or losing and it never was. The outcome was guaranteed from the second he saw her standing there in her torn bloodied dress on the deck of a sinking ship. It was never going to go any other way.

 

“It’s not fair,” she says eventually, voice soft and low. “It isn’t.”

 

He sees the gap and he leaps at it.

 

“It ain’t fair that James Wesley kidnapped you either. It ain’t fair that you are here when you should be on your way home to your betrothed without a care in the world,” he lets that statement stand on its own so she can take it any way she pleases. “I said I would keep you safe and that is what I will do.”

 

“You don’t need to keep me safe,” she says. “It’s not your responsibility.”

 

_You don’t need to keep me safe._

 

_It’s not your responsibility._

 

Except he does and it is.

 

He touches her arm then, the space just above her elbow, where he can feel the muscle bunching, the smoothness of her skin and how it prickles under his fingers.

 

She gasps, but she doesn’t pull away and he doesn’t let go either.

 

“It is my responsibility,” he says and even to his ears his voice sounds thick and cracked. “It is. Know that.”

 

A moment. A beat. And then those eyes again, that gentle curl in her hair bobbing as she turns her head and he’s surprised by the sudden desire to touch it, tuck it behind her ear. Or not.

 

“Frank…”

 

His name now. Soft. Gentle. But it goes right through him and a shiver meanders down his spine, settles in his belly, makes the world even smaller and more claustrophobic, fills his lungs with sea water and makes it hard to breathe.

 

She shouldn’t do that. She shouldn’t say his name. Not ever.

 

He wishes she would do it again.

 

Somewhere he finds his tongue, forces it to move and form sounds that he hopes sound like words.

 

“If I leave you there alone, no one is going to help you and you’ll either be stuck there begging for the rest of your days or paying in other ways.”

 

It’s not a threat. It’s just a fact.

 

She’s not even offended. He didn’t think she would be. Miss Page is nothing if not a realist.

 

“I won’t let that happen to you. I will see you home safely if I have to carry you to your fiance myself.”

 

He should let go. He should. They both know it, but there’s something about the way she fits into his hand, the pleasant smoothness of her skin and the way she’s looking at him like she’s found something she thought she’d lost that makes him linger a second longer than he should, makes him meet her eyes and stutter on his words.

 

"Please..."

 

_Karen…_

 

There it is again. He thinks he said it outloud but can’t be sure.

 

And then another racket from the mess hall, someone yelling about Shark-Bait Jonny and something to do with the drinking water, and the spell is broken.

 

He gives her arm a final squeeze, lets his thumb glide over her skin and then releases her, takes a step back.

 

“Miss Page,” he says inclining his head towards her and for a moment he can believe that the world has righted itself again, that things are back to the way they were before he said her name. But he knows it’s a lie. He knows something has changed and it’s just a matter of time before he can figure out exactly how much of a problem it will be.

 

“Captain.”

 

She’s trying too. He wonders if she’s coming to the same conclusion.

 

He nods once, short and sharp and then he turns around and heads up to the deck and the air and a place where the world doesn’t feel as small as three bullets and her name.


	6. Dead in the water

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What can I say, this seems to have been a good writing week for me.

 

She doesn't see the Captain much over the next few days and she guesses that's for the best.

 

It's a small thing really, and she's not ordinarily given to these kind of musings, but somehow his voice sounding out her name feels bigger than it should and she's not really sure why. It's just a name after all and it’s not like there aren’t many others that use it, so there’s no particular reason this should feel any different. And yet it does. And that makes her wonder if it isn't something else entirely that's got her on edge - like maybe the fact that he's got it into his head that her and Foggy are somehow his responsibility… and maybe that means much more than it should.

 

Maybe.

 

Still, she finds she misses his company, which in itself is odd because it's not like she really knows him well enough to know what it is that she's missing. What she does know however, is the he spends a lot of time in his quarters, lights burning brightly long into the night, and she sometimes hears him talking to Mr Lieberman in the next room, but their voices are low and muffled and she can't make out what they're saying.

 

Not that it's any of her business. Not that she's curious about it. Not that Mr Lieberman sticks out on this ship like a sore thumb and she's not sure she's ever seen anyone who is less of a pirate than he is.

 

Not that she thinks that _at all_.

 

Most days she sits with Foggy, tells him about the captain, the crew, what the day is like outside. He's still twitchy about the whole thing and doesn't pass up any opportunity to bring up the captain's reputation even when he knows what he's saying could not possibly be true.

 

“He put weevils into an old lady's flour,” He told her once. “What kind of a man does that?”

 

She’d scowled at him. “Tell me Foggy, did he do this before or after he summoned the sea monsters to destroy the fishing grounds off the coast of Mexico?”

 

“After,” he said petulantly “Destroy the fish first, _then_ the loaves. The man is the devil himself.”

 

He’d seemed overly proud of his cleverness and she'd pursed her lips at him, which made him smile even more and soon she couldn't help but join him.

 

Most days when Foggy is resting she reads Mr Lieberman’s books, but they're not very good, nor very interesting. But when she tried to find something else to do the captain point blank refused to let her help with any manual labour like cleaning or cooking.

 

“You're a guest,” he insisted on one of the few times she saw him at breakfast.

 

“A bored guest,” she fired back and he rolled his eyes, suggested she ask Mr Lieberman for another book and when she glared at him he got a slightly hopeful look on his face and asked if she knew how to play the guitar. She doesn't and that was the end of that. She did reiterate that Foggy is good with the fiddle and the captain made some comment about how Foggy and Mr Lieberman can become travelling musicians when they reach land.

 

She doesn't think that's a terrible idea if she's honest. She thinks they might be quite good if they got it together.

 

Still, it didn't sway the captain to change his mind about her helping out in some way and she wonders if it's because it feels too much like payment to him, and that in turn makes her wonder about him and his extremely unflinching code of honour.

All this leaves a lot of time and fodder for thinking.

 

So she does. She thinks about a ruby engagement ring at the bottom of the ocean; she thinks about Mr and Mrs Ulrich and how they're together now; about James Wesley and the seven bullets she put in his body; and finally about a man who wants to marry her - who considers them “betrothed" even though they aren't, not really.

 

Not _truly._

 

And that's something else too because it wasn't exactly a lie when she told the captain she was, but it wasn't the truth either, and it seems an odd thing to bring up with him now even if there's a part of her that really wants to - even if there’s part of her that feels she owes it to him. Of course there’s the other problem of Foggy. It would break his heart to hear the truth of the matter between her and Matt and she doesn't want any more of him breaking because of her.

 

So she doesn't say anything. She sits and she thinks and she listens to the lapping of the waves and she imagines what life will be like when she's no longer on this ship and headed home to New York.

 

~~~

 

The sixth night since her abduction and subsequent rescue, she lies on her bed reading and then, in a fit of frustration, she tosses Mr Lieberman’s book across the room and it crashes into the desk, knocks off some quills and papers, and sends a tin cup of water flying onto the floor.

 

She swears loudly and gets up to retrieve the book and assess the water damage when she hears a tentative knock on her door.

 

“Ma’am?”

 

She looks down at herself. She's wearing an oversized men's shirt that comes to just above her knees, and not much else because ladies sleep clothes was also not something they had much of on the _Mea Culpa_.

 

“Yes?” she says

 

“Ma'am?” voice low, gruff. “You alright?”

 

She knows he does this sometimes - patrols the corridors at night, She hears him sometimes when she can’t sleep. She thinks he doesn't sleep much either.

 

“I'm fine,” she says. “I just knocked something over.”

 

“Alright,” he says. “You be careful.”

 

“I will.”

 

She listens for a few seconds, cocking her head to see if she can hear the shuffle of his boots as he walks away, but there’s nothing - just the sounds of the sea and creaking of the ship and a few gulls cawing outside.

 

On impulse she goes to the door and pulls it open. The dim light from the passage combined with the reflection from sea casts the captain in a strange, almost bluish hue that makes him look somehow both softer and harder than usual.

 

He fills the doorway and again she's struck by how big he is. Maybe not very tall, but muscular and thick and not for the first time she thinks that he could snap a person in two depending on his intent and the person being snapped - and she doesn’t even bother to try and push that thought away.

 

He seems mildly surprised that she opened the door and even more so by the fact that she did so in her relative state of undress. She notes that he does look down at her bare legs but almost immediately catches himself and hauls his eyes up to her face again.

 

 _Not dead,_ she thinks. _Maybe close, maybe skirting the edges, but not dead._

 

The stories were wrong. At least that part.

 

“Kar--, Ma'am,” he says again. “Is something wrong?”

 

She holds the book up so he can see the cover - an ornate gold leaf design with a young bosomy woman swooning in a wooden boat under the stars and he frowns. “I was reading one of Mr Lieberman’s books…”

 

“So there is something wrong.”

 

She smiles at that and he does too and it feels like it lasts a moment longer than it should.

 

“I'm restless,” she says and she knows she sounds like a child. “I feel like I might go out of my mind before we reach Barbados.

 

“I know you don't want me helping out and I'm sure you have your reasons, and I'm here by your leave but captain… if I have to read another of those terrible books… well I…” she stops, grins and tosses out her heaviest Southern accent. “... well I might get a case of the gosh darn vapours, I might.”

 

He laughs. It's short and hard, but it’s genuine and he looks away briefly.

 

“We wouldn't want that.”

 

“It would be very bad form,” she agrees. “Having me die of The Melancholy before I get home.”

 

“And to think we just ran out of the smelling salts,” he adds.

 

She chuckles again, folds her arms and leans on the doorframe too.

 

She didn't see it before in his office - maybe she was too scared or too overwhelmed but his eyes _do_ in fact change when he smiles. They don't look like holes in his head, like two pieces of black coal that the good Lord thought would make the best eyes for this roughest of men. They twinkle and there's a mischief in them that she didn't see before but isn't surprised by.

 

He watches her for a while, still smiling and she finds she doesn't care about her lack of clothing, nor about the fact that she's apparently entertaining him outside her bedroom door. She wonders how many human laws get left behind when you step off land and onto the sea.

 

Obviously the captain's answer would be most of them.

 

“Only problem is…,” he says scratching his head. “... if we find you something to do, what are we going to to do with David's books.”

 

She frowns, puts a finger to her lips.

 

“Well Foggy does love a good romance.”

 

He grins. “Probably not as much as Shark-Bait Jonny.”

 

She laughs and it’s not long before he joins in. It’s a deep, hearty sound that seems to bubble up from his belly and she catches herself thinking that it would be a very good thing if he could find more reason to do it and not be so maudlin and stoic all the time.

 

 _He’s a decent man,_ she thinks. _Maybe not a nice man, maybe not a good man, but a decent one; and sometimes decent is better than nice or good._

 

And she's not sure exactly how, but as their laughter dies down and the last echoes of it fade into the ocean, the whole situation seems to take on a new quality. It’s not discomfort or tension but somehow the elements are there, the building blocks and she has no idea why or how to feel about it.

 

And she knows he notices too. She thinks there are very few things that escape him.

 

But then he touches her arm gently, just above the elbow.

 

“Go to sleep ma'am,” he says. “Tomorrow we’ll go swimming so I can teach you how to get barnacles off the underneath of the ship...”

 

It takes her a second to realise he's joking and she scowls at him.

 

“If you show me how, I would do it.”

 

He snorts.

 

“I believe you would.” He studies her for a second and then he sobers, smiles again. “I'll have something for you to do tomorrow.”

 

She nods, bites her bottom lip, sucks it into her mouth - doesn't miss the way his eyes flick low to her legs and then up again.

 

And then she pushes away from the door, retreats into her room and she doesn't miss how his gaze lingers on her for a second longer than it should.

 

“Goodnight Captain.”

 

“Goodnight ma'am.”

 

~~~

 

True to his word, he finds her something to do and she can't entirely believe how absolutely perfect it is.

 

The next morning before breakfast, before she's gone to see Foggy, before the night has really even fully left and the daylight is still dim on the horizon, he's knocking on her door again.

 

She truly does wonder if he's sleeps at all.

 

He gives her a few minutes to wash and dress and tells her to meet him on the deck near the bow, warns that it's cold out.

 

It is.

 

She shivers as she walks into the low light and the wind whips her hair. She's found that mornings at sea are often not good indications of the day to come. It's always chilly and the ocean, while not surging, does have a choppiness to it which may or may not die down in the next few hours.

 

She glances up and the sky is clear enough, but that in itself doesn't mean it will stay that way, and some rain would be welcome for drinking water, which is apparently a problem and something she's heard Shark-Bait Jonny talking about in the mess hall a lot.

 

She catches sight of a dark figure sitting high in the crow’s nest, telescope straight out in front of him peering into the distance. She realises with a start that it's Lewis. She doesn't think he sees her though and if he does he gives no indication.

 

She's not going to worry about Lewis now.

 

The captain is standing on the bow facing away from her. All in black again he looks like a statue with his arms folded and his legs planted firmly apart. His shirt billows though and she wonders that he isn't cold, that he doesn't wear a coat even in this weather.

 

It could be a penance, she thinks. She knows some men eschew certain comforts to atone for past wrongs, although he doesn't seem to be too determined to take that on completely. Still, she thinks maybe his punishment extends to himself as well.

 

He turns when he hears her behind him and again she's struck by how his hardness is tempered in the morning light. She wouldn’t have thought it before, but there’s a very handsome man lurking in The Punisher’s shadows.

 

He's holding a rope in each hand and attached to the end of both are the dogs - Russ and the poor creature he took off _Scylla_.

 

Russ wags his tail when he sees her, lets out a low _whuff_ and goes low, sticking his backside in the air. The other dog does nothing. She sits there with her flaming skin and wary eyes and doesn't look at anything.

 

“You like dogs Miss Page?” the captain asks and she narrows her eyes and nods, takes another step forward.

 

“I do.”

 

That seems to please him immensely, possibly more than anything she's said yet and his smile is so wide and bright she almost catches the flash of someone - some _thing_ \- else behind it; someone he used to be once and probably can never be again.

 

“Careful,” she says. “Your face might stay like that if the wind changes.”

 

If anything he smiles even wider, and briefly it's like he can't meet her eyes.

 

He's shy, she realises. Not in the sense that he's afraid to speak or make himself known - certainly not in that sense - but there's a bashfulness to him that's unexpected and she finds that charming.

 

“So, Miss Page,” he says. “You already know Russ…”

 

Russ barks just in case she didn't know it was him and thumps his tail on the deck and the captain frowns at him like he's a naughty child.

 

“But Bones here ...,” he nods at the other dog, “... she doesn't know anyone and she doesn't like anyone either.”

 

Karen draws level with him, looks down at the dog. The fact is she can’t quite tell what kind of a dog Bones is, nor its colour. Its hair is so sparse as to be almost transparent and its skin is just a horrible sickly shade of pink. Karen can count every one of her ribs too and her hindquarters are lumpy and scabbed. She doesn’t smell though - or at least not like she did that first night when the stench of decay was thick on her in the captain’s office - and that’s a small mercy.

 

“I can’t say I blame her,” she says and he nods, hands her Russ’ rope and goes down on one knee to put his hand on the Bones’ head. She expects that the dog will shy away from him - in fact part of her hopes she will because shying away means she has some idea of self-preservation left; it means she knows she exists in the world and expects to have a degree of control over it. This dog has nothing of the sort. It allows itself to be touched and petted and it gives no indication of how it feels about that or even if it knows it’s happening.

 

“There is good news,” he says. “This mange isn’t contagious so it doesn’t matter if Russ plays with her.”

 

Russ gives a short sharp bark when he hears his name and the captain rolls his eyes good-naturedly.

 

“Also,” he continues. “Curtis has a salve for her skin. She needs to have it rubbed on once a day and she needs a bath every three days with some kind of special soap he has as well.”

 

“But there’s bad news too?” She bends down so she’s on her haunches in front of him and he glances at her, eyes dark and mouth set in a grim line.

 

“She’s… well, she’s like this,” he says. “Bones is also scared to eat so I can only imagine that asshole Wesley and his crew probably did something to her when she tried.”

 

His hand is shaking on the dog’s head and his voice has taken on a strange tightness.

 

This upsets him, she sees, and well it might as it _is_ upsetting. Whatever happened to this dog, be it overt abuse or neglect was extremely cruel and while Karen does indeed have a great deal of compassion for this poor lost soul, she also believes fully and whole-heartedly that if the captain could resurrect the crew of _Scylla_ just to kill them all again for the plight of this dog, he would.

 

She knows his story. She knows it’s buried somewhere deep inside the myths and the legends and the lies. And she knows that what she said to him the first night, still holds true: she wants to hear it from him. That seems important. All the same she knows that this rage at human cruelty is part of it too, even if somewhere behind his black eyes, Captain Frank Castle knows he himself is not innocent of it either.

 

“I’ll do it,” she says.

 

“I haven’t even asked you yet.”

 

She shakes her head and, on impulse, leans forward and puts a hand on his shoulder. For a moment she thinks she’s miscalculated, that he’ll pull away or read something into it that isn’t there but he doesn’t do either. He looks at where they’re touching and briefly she thinks he almost leans into her, that the press of his shoulder against her palm is heavier than it was.

 

And then his eyes meet hers.

 

“You don’t need to,” she says. “I want to do this. For her.”

 

_For you._

 

“You sure? I can find someone else.”

 

A splash of sea spray against her face, another against his and the first ray of sunlight appears over the horizon. It turns his skin almost golden and makes his eyes glimmer. Today they are kind eyes. Tomorrow they might not be.

 

“I’m sure,” she says.

 

He nods slowly as if it's very important he absorb this information properly, and then pats her hand and covers it with his own.

 

“Okay,” he says. “Okay good. Thank you.”

 

She wants to tell him there’s no need to thank her. He saved Foggy’s life; he saved hers. And every day she is on this ship he’s saving it again, no matter how difficult this all might be. He owes her nothing. But there's something going on here she doesn't fully understand and she senses that there's a part of him that needs to be in her debt - that likes it.

 

He's a strange man. Complicated. Cruel even, and yet somehow noble and righteous too. Kind. Endlessly, irredeemably kind. She doesn't know what to make of that. She doesn't know where cruel ends and kind starts or if they can even be so rigidly divided as that. She thinks briefly of Matt and the last time she saw him, the tears on his face and those on hers and the different reasons for both. She thinks that maybe if they'd been crying over the same thing she wouldn't feel so confused right now, she'd know she was making the right choice by going home. Whatever home means. She wonders if he’s also kind and cruel… if she is.

 

But now, right now in this moment that doesn't matter because _this_ is the right choice. It might be small and inconsequential in the grander scheme of things but it is the right choice.

 

She stands. The captain does too, his fingers tightening around hers briefly before letting go.

 

He looks out to the sea and she follows his gaze. She decides it's going to be a beautiful day despite the chill. It has to be.

 

“Russ…” he stops and waits for the inevitable bark. “... likes her. It might be good for her to be around him a little but it's up to you what you wanna do. He's a handful.”

 

Russ thumps his tail, tongue lolling out of his mouth.

 

“Alright,” she says.

 

He holds out his fingers for Russ’ rope at the same time as she reaches to take Bones’.

 

“Here,” he says and he loops the leash around her hand, lets her do the same for him. “Keep her close. There's nowhere she can go but she managed to escape to the gundeck yesterday and it took ages to find her and the steam engines down there make it very hard to search for her.”

 

“I'll make sure to keep her with me all the time,” she says. “... until we leave.”

 

He eyes her for a good few seconds and she has no idea what he's thinking. He's chewing on the inside of his cheek and there's a muscle twitching in his jaw and he seems about to say something when there's a shout from above.

 

“Captain! Captain!”

 

They both turn to see Lewis scrambling down the mast, tripping over himself as he rushes across the deck.

 

Even so his eyes are fixed on her and while she doesn't sense any true threat she doesn't miss how Frank places himself in front of her, extends his arms in much the same way she did when she was trying to save Foggy from him on _Scylla_.

 

“What is it Wilson?”

 

“Look! Look!” he's pointing to the ocean, close to where they're standing, and the captain follows him to the gunwale, peers overboard.

 

“It’s bad, Captain, isn't it?” He's not looking at the captain though, he's looking at her and she feels a shiver go through her. “It’s really bad.”

 

The captain stares at the water for a few seconds and then rolls back on his heels, breathes deeply and shakes his head. Even from where she's standing she can see his eyes have taken on that hard quality they do when he's annoyed.

 

“Wilson,” he says shaking his head.

 

“Captain you know what they say…”

 

“Yes I know,” he says. “I also know bullshit when I hear it…” he glances at her. “Sorry ma'am.”

 

It takes her a moment to realise he's apologising for cursing and in other circumstances she might find it amusing but now her curiosity is piqued and she walks Bones to stand next to the captain, looks over the edge too and sees a white dirty mass floating way down in the water, bumping against the side of the ship.

 

It's an albatross - dead for a while by the look of it, most of its feathers stripped off and pieces of bone showing through mottled flesh. It's lying face up and its beak is cracked, eyes jellyfied in its skull.

 

And she has no idea why she's looking at it. And no idea why Lewis would leave his post to come and tell the captain about it.

 

“Wilson, get back to your job.”

 

“But Captain…”

 

“I said get back.”

 

“It’s an albatross…”

 

“I know what it is Wilson, and I'm telling you again to get back to your post before I throw you overboard with it.”

 

The last words are not spoken loudly but there's a definite warning in his voice. It's low and she doesn't have to strain to hear that he's trying to cover a growl by throwing as much annoyance as he can into it.

 

“Captain…”

 

“Goddamnit kid,” he says turning to him so fast that Lewis takes a few steps backwards. “Get back to your post now. Do not make me tell you again.”

 

Another spray of sea water, a gust of wind and the ship lurches forward, the corpse of the albatross dancing grotesquely along the sides, lifting up and down on the waves like they're heaving underneath it. And then it's gone, lost behind the stern and becoming nothing more than a dirty speck behind them.

 

And then Lewis.

 

He looks at her reproachfully, eyes hard like little chips of ice.

 

“There a reason you still here?” The captain asks. “There something you wanna say?”

 

The answer is yes, the answer is most definitely yes. He has so much he wants to say. Karen can feel the resentment coming off him. It feels like it fills the air, makes it thick with the smell of sweat and bile but he holds his tongue, turns and heads back to the mast.

 

“What was that about?” She asks and the captain shakes his head, watches as Lewis makes his way back into the crow’s nest.

 

“Come on,” he puts a hand firmly between her shoulder blades, steers her towards the cabin.

 

But his eyes don't leave the mast and even though she can't see him she can feel Lewis’ hard stare scorching her, nothing but pure hatred at her back.


	7. Lady Luck

  


A dead Albatross is apparently bad luck. Very bad luck. Mr Lieberman tells her this over breakfast. He joins her after the Captain leaves in a bit of a state to go and talk to Curtis. She notices Mr Lieberman isn't on cook duty and, since the bread doesn't taste half as good as it usually does, she's pretty sure he's not baking it either.

 

“Old pirate thing,” he says, putting his hat - with its big bright feather - on the table, as he swings his long legs over the bench and folds himself into the cramped space. “Bad luck to have bananas and women on board, bad luck to see a shark following the ship, bad luck to change the ship’s name, bad luck to cut your hair on certain days… bad luck to see a dead albatross.”

 

She nods slowly. “That's a lot of bad luck.”

 

“Superstitious bunch, we are.”

 

“You know a lot about pirates Mr Lieberman.”

 

He looks slightly offended. “Course I do. I'm the only real pirate on this ship. I have a hat and everything.”

 

“I can believe that,” she says.

 

“Arrrrr,” he says playfully and she laughs.

 

He takes a mouthful of his porridge, pulls a face and pushes it to the middle of the table. She's about to ask him why he's not on kitchen duty if he knows the food takes a turn for the worse when he's not around, but he starts talking before she can.

 

“So Miss Page,” he says. “Captain tells me you're travelling from Argentina?”

 

She nods.

 

“Quite a journey you've had.”

 

She eyes him over her coffee mug, lets it last a little longer than necessary. He's fishing. That much is obvious. What's not obvious is why.

 

“Not everyday you go from being a civilian to a pirate,” she says lightly.

 

Mr Lieberman raises his eyebrows. “Happens to the best of us.”

 

There's something in the way he says that, a hint of irony or maybe self-deprecation, and she can't help but glance at the wedding ring where it glints on his finger.

 

He sees her looking and covers it with his free hand almost self-consciously.

 

She decides to risk it.

 

“So Mr Lieberman, how did _you_ come to be here? Did you also know the Captain from…”

 

She's not sure exactly what to say. The captain's told her he was in the Marines Corps and it's obvious something happened there that went bad. It's also obvious that there's a select few who were there with him like Curtis and Billy, maybe Gunner. She’s not sure about Shark-bait Jonny - he doesn’t seem the military type, but she's fairly certain that despite his claims of being a real pirate Mr Lieberman has never spent a moment in the Marine Corps. She's also sure he isn't much of a sailor either, and again she wonders why he seems to have such good quarters and seemingly just enough work to make it look like he's busy.

 

“From?”

 

“Before.” It sounds stupid because she'd wager a guess there were a few befores. Before now. Before then.

 

An image of the dark-haired woman in the picture flits through her head.

 

Before _her_ . Before _them_.

 

She wonders if there was even a before for that.

 

He shakes his head and his hair stands up around his face like a halo.

 

“No, I met Frank in New York … just after…”

 

She looks up.

 

“New York?”

 

“Yes,” he says. “That's where he's from. I am too.”

 

“Really?”

 

“Yes, you didn't know?”

 

She shakes her head. It doesn't mean much. Not in the grander scheme of things. Lots of people are from New York these days and originally she's actually not one of them.

 

“I would have just thought he might have said something … I'm on my way back there myself. You probably know that.”

 

He doesn't give any indication that he does.

 

“Tell me,” he says smoothly.

 

She frowns. It's not that she dislikes him. He's friendly and funny and she thinks the Captain probably wasn't lying about his low tolerance for liquor. Still, there's something that makes her feel like she's being sized up in a very real way.

 

She shrugs. “Nothing much to tell. I'm going to New York to… to get married.”

 

She hates the stutter in her voice every time she says that; hates that it's so obvious and that it feels like she's counting down to the moment when it all spills out of her. And when it spills she doesn't know if it will stop.

 

She thinks maybe she'll drown in it and when she does, there's not going to be anyone to save her.

 

“Miss Page?”

 

He's asking a question and it takes her a moment to realise she has no idea what it was.

 

“I'm sorry,” she says. “I was away with the fairies.”

 

He smiles. “Worse places to be.”

 

“Maybe.”

 

He gives her a curious look, glances briefly at Billy who walks past their table and tosses himself onto a bench next to Gunner.

 

“I asked if you've been engaged for long,” he says.

 

“Long enough.”

 

It's not nearly as easy to say as she'd hoped. That's partly because it's a lie and partly because she doesn't even know the answer. It could be years, it could be not at all depending on what version of the story she's telling. And right now she doesn't feel like sharing much about her pending nuptials with Mr Lieberman.

 

But luckily he doesn't press very hard on that specific aspect of her life. Instead he asks a bit about Matt, a little about Foggy too. She tells him the truth on all counts. They're both lawyers. They were struggling to succeed and then they started breaking even - their practice is going well now that Matt seems to understand that he can't save everyone and needs to actually charge for the work he does. Their caseload is bigger and more prestigious and it's a good time for her to return so her and Matt can get married. She has no idea why she adds the last bit except maybe to drive it home to herself.

 

Mr Lieberman seems very uninterested in that.

 

“Bet they step on some toes?” he asks a little too casually and she puts down her coffee, eyes him up and down and she actually thinks she sees him suck in a breath.

 

“Now Mr Lieberman, why would you ask a question like that?”

 

He shrugs, pretends he doesn't care. “Just that I considered going into the law myself a long time ago.”

 

It's a lie if she's ever heard one.

 

She narrows her eyes. “Well then you'll have to talk to Foggy when he is well enough. Maybe he could help you out.”

 

“Yeah maybe,” he says nonchalantly but there's a gleam in his eyes and she's pretty sure he's going to make very good on this “maybe".

 

“But you were telling me how you know Frank…” his name is out of her mouth before she can stop it and, with the way Mr Lieberman’s head snaps up, he's noticed the familiarity too. “...the Captain.”

 

He's quiet for longer than he needs to be and then he bobs his head.

 

“I was,” he says and she gets the impression that while he doesn’t bear her any ill will, he is setting traps and waiting to see if she falls into them.

 

“So how did you meet him?”

 

“I needed work and he needed a cook and well, the rest is history.”

 

She doesn't believe it this either. It's a cover story. It holds as much water as Matt and his excuses about what he did and why he did it. The broad strokes are there but the details, the important bits, the surface beneath the surface, is just as murky as it ever was.

 

She wonders what this is about.

 

She decides to be direct.

 

“And that?” She nods at the wedding ring on his finger and he flinches, covers it again with his other hand even though it's pointless. “Not many married pirates I would wager...”

 

It could go either way. He could get upset, he could get angry, or he could just accept it as a normal question and answer her.

 

He chooses the latter.

 

“My wife, Sarah, and our children are in Barbados at the moment.”

 

“Oh? Long way from home,” she says. “You must be excited to see them then.”

 

It hits a nerve which is exactly what she was hoping for. There's no way Mr Lieberman is on this ship with his wife's blessing. No one who can cook like he can would willingly choose a pirate’s ship to ply his trade, especially one that seems at risk of being shot out of the water at any time and is run by a man who, at least to the rest of the world, is nothing short of the devil himself.

 

Mr Lieberman can't hide his frown, nor the strange, pained sound he makes in the back of his throat. Whatever it might be that's keeping him here and not with his wife, it's obvious that he wishes things were different.

 

But he swallows, forces a strange sounding cough out of his throat.

 

“It will be nice to see them again.”

 

Not a lie. Not exactly. An evasion. Karen is used to evasions.

 

“You going to stay for a while? Maybe head back home and leave Frank…” she stumbles over his name again “…the Captain to find a new cook?”

 

He shakes his head.

 

“No not yet.”

 

“You can't find land-based work?” she asks. “Something that'll keep you with your family?”

 

He looks at her sharply and shifts in his seat.

 

“Isn't that simple, Miss Page.”

 

“Isn't it?”

 

“No,” he says firmly and his eyes go hard as ice. It’s a warning but not one she's particularly inclined to listen to. Even so, she decides to back off a little.

 

But only a little.

 

“How many children do you have?”

 

“Two,” he says quickly. “A boy and a girl.”

 

She nods and gets the distinct impression he'd do anything he could to stop this conversation veering too close to whatever secret he's trying to keep.

 

He'll show his hand.

 

And to a large degree he does.

 

“So Miss Page, how do you know James Wesley?”

 

“I don't,” She purses her lips. “I'm sure the Captain told you that.”

 

“Just very odd that he specifically targeted you.”

 

She takes another sip of her coffee. “Funny, the Captain said the same thing… but I'm sure this is all information he's already shared with his …  ‘spies’.”

 

Mr Lieberman blanches when she says that, his face going white and his eyes flashing like crystals.

 

“Now why would you say that Miss Page?”

 

His voice is trembling and when she looks at his hands they're shaking too.

 

“Please Mr Lieberman, I'm not a sailor or a pirate, nor was I ever in any service… but a cook who has a room second only to the captain's quarters? Who seems to have no trouble getting his hands on luxuries like books? Who makes a racket at night playing an untuned guitar and somehow doesn't get himself thrown off the ship? Who the Captain's own second in command…” she nods sharply to where Billy sits with Gunner on the other side of the mess hall. “... doesn't like, even though he apparently gets to vet everyone... I'm not a pirate but I wasn't born yesterday either.”

 

“How did you know Billy didn't vet me?” He asks and she smiles.

 

“I didn't. I do now,” she takes another sip of her coffee and he shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “I think the Captain needs you for some reason and you need him, so he gives you work so no one else knows.”

 

‘That so Miss Page?”

 

Yes that is so. His face says it all.

 

She nods.

 

“I'm just the cook.”

 

She glances at the unappetizing gruel in front of him, cocks her head. “The cook who isn't cooking.”

 

He holds her gaze for a while and then despite himself, he smiles too.

 

“Frank was right,” he says.

 

“About what?”

 

“You do make a man feel like he's on trial.”

 

If he was hoping to distract her, it works. She feels a flush creeping up from under her shirt, up her neck and onto her face and Mr Lieberman would need to blind not to notice it.

 

“Don't know why he would say such a thing,” she says with a lightness she doesn't feel. “I'm here by his leave. He has no obligation to me, nor to answer any of my questions.”

 

But even as she says it she can see him looming in front of her in that dark passage, his hand on her arm and his voice heavy and choked.

 

_It is my responsibility. Know that._

 

Mr Lieberman narrows his eyes. “You have a lot to learn about Frank Castle then, ma'am.”

 

She shrugs. “Doesn't matter. I won't be here in less than three weeks. Not much time to learn much of anything.”

 

“That's unfortunate.”

 

“Is it?” she asks. “I thought I was bad luck.”

 

Mr Lieberman glances towards the door and she follows his gaze to see the Captain walking towards them and it doesn't take eagle eyes to see how the his face changes when he sees her, how his jaw softens and his perpetual scowl evaporates.

 

“No, Karen,” Mr Lieberman stands and puts his hat on his head. “I think you might be quite the opposite.”

 

~~~

 

There’s a strange sort of energy on the ship that afternoon. At lunch Billy announces there’s going to be a meeting on the deck before dinner and attendance is mandatory. He even sticks a notice up on the mess hall door and gets Shark-Bait Jonny to spread the word among the crew.

 

Jonny, for his part, seems to think this means her as well and he catches her just outside her room, Bones in tow, to tell her about it.

 

“Ma’am… Miss Page… ma’am, my lady...”

 

He's tall - _very_ tall, and chunky too and maybe his size would be intimidating if not for the enormous grin on his face and the bright red flush of his cheeks. He looks like an amiable bear that doesn't know its own strength and would probably roll over for a belly rub if he got half a chance.

 

She really doesn't want to rub his belly.

 

She cranes her neck to look up at him and he looms so large in front of her he seems to blot out all the light coming in through the portholes.

 

“Mr…”

 

He seems momentarily flustered but he recovers fast enough.

 

“Jonny,” he says. “Just Jonny.”

 

She nods.

 

Just Jonny it is then.

 

He's silent for a few seconds and she can't help but think of dogs who chase their own tails and have no idea what to do with them when they catch them.

 

“Ma'am, Mr Russo… um, Billy… um, the executive… second in command,” he gives up and indicates his hair which is short and dark and pretends to shake it out and glide his good hand through it.

 

“I know who Billy is, Just Jonny,” she says suppressing a grin, and if anything he turns a brighter shade of red and she wonders if his head might actually explode.

 

“He's called a meeting this afternoon,” he says importantly. “On the deck.”

 

Behind her she hears the Captain's door click open but she doesn't turn and the Captain doesn't come out into the corridor.

 

“I know about it,” she says and his face falls so she rushes to continue. “But thank you for reminding me. It was very thoughtful of you.”

 

It's all it takes to have him beaming again.

 

“Well, I'll see you there Miss Page,” he says. “And you too Bones.”

 

He looks down at the dog and waves slowly.

 

Karen gives him an indulgent smile. His kindness is endearing but it will take more than a soft word to sort out the trauma in Bones’ head. But then, to her surprise she feels the gentle thump of a bristly tail against her boot. It's only once and it stops almost before it starts but it happens, and she turns to look down at the dog, now standing still with the same old dead look in her eyes.

 

“Did you just wag your tail, Bones?” she asks.

 

Bones is silent but it doesn't matter. She felt it, and according to what the Captain has told her, it's more than any of them have got since they found her.

 

Karen glances back up at Jonny. “She must like you.”

 

His grin nearly breaks his face in half and after that trying to talk to him is useless. He sputters out a “by your leave" and turns on his heel, all but skipping down the passageway, trailing his hook along the wall and making an almighty noise as he does. She's pretty sure the Captain isn't going to appreciate the scratched wood too much.

 

As if he's heard her thoughts he steps out of his quarters and into the corridor.

 

“Next time he does that, he's going to get latrine duty.”

 

She doesn't turn when she feels him draw level with her but she can smell something heavy and fresh. Saltwater mixed with sage and blood.

 

He's running hot too, seemingly heating the cool corridor with nothing but his presence. Not that that is unusual. Every time she's touched him, his skin has felt like it was burning into hers.

 

She wishes she didn't know why that is.

 

“You don't need to go this afternoon - I think Shark-Bait just wanted an excuse to talk to you,” he rumbles.

 

She finds that idea more amusing than anything else.

 

“It's only for the crew,” he continues. “That's why Billy is doing it. I'm not even going to be there.”

 

That's interesting. The Captain is very hands on. She's pretty sure there’s very little going on on the ship that doesn't escape his notice or that he isn't actively involved in instigating. So the idea that he'd just let Billy Russo take the lead and make any decision regarding the crew without him agreeing to it, is nothing short of ludicrous.

 

And that means there's something else going on.

 

“Sending Mr Russo to do the dirty work?” she asks.

 

“I’m guessing you’ve got a reason for why I would do something like that?”

 

She shrugs. “Love the captain, hate the second in command.”

 

He barks out a laugh and she knows without looking that his eyes are sparkling.

 

“And you say you don't know anything about running a ship Miss Page.”

 

It's true. She doesn't.

 

She turns then. He’s standing closer than she thought but he doesn't move away. She doesn't either.

 

“I don't,” she says. “But if I was going to do something unpopular and I still needed people to listen to me afterwards, then having someone to blame it on would be a great help.”

 

He nods and the look in his eyes is self-deprecating.

 

“You sure you've never been a pirate before?”

 

“Pretty sure,” she says. “And don't I need a big hat like Mr Lieberman’s before I qualify?”

 

He snorts. “That's the most important bit… and the parrot.”

 

“Well if you have one to spare,” she says, glancing at Bones. “I’m happy to add it to my collection of lost souls.”

 

He smiles at that but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. She thinks she can guess why.

 

It's quiet for a while but not unpleasant, and she likes standing here with him not doing much of anything and just listening to the splash of the sea outside. She thinks he likes it too.

 

“It’s an old trick really,” he says and it takes her a second to realise he's reverted to the topic of Billy and general pirate ship management. “It took me years to figure it out when I was in the Marine Corps.”

 

He sounds almost wistful and she wonders what it was like for him being at sea for so long - if he learnt to love it or if it became too much and he wanted to just give it all up and go home to the woman in the picture, forget about it all.

 

“My executive office, Ray Schoonover… he used to give me hell. Billy too. We hated him, couldn't figure out for the life of us how our captain didn't say anything about it. We'd go to him and start whining about it - _Oh Captain Rawlins, he's at it again and he's doing this and that_ \- and he’d listen and sympathise and we'd feel like we'd made some progress because the Captain outranked the Executive Officer and he'd sort it out... and nothing would happen…” he leans against the wall and he's looking off into the distance, barely acknowledging she's there and mostly caught up in his nostalgia. “Took us getting this ship and doing what we do now to work it out. Schoonover was just following Rawlins’ lead. Hell, it wasn’t even that good of a ploy when you think about it. But we fell for it every time.” He looks back at her. “Apparently we weren't all that smart.”

 

She doesn't think that's true. The captain is plenty smart. He just has a few blind spots.

 

“You miss it?” she asks. “The Marine Corps?”

 

He looks at her for what seems like a few seconds longer than necessary and then shakes his head. “No…”

 

There’s more to that story too - she can hear it in the timbre of his voice, see it in the way the sparkle goes out of his eyes.

 

She doesn't think he'll offer anything else but then he frowns.

 

“It got… it got strange the last few times we were out. It got…” he's struggling to find the words, “... different.

 

“You know when you thought you knew something, thought you understood it and suddenly you don’t? Suddenly something happens and you think it came out of nowhere but when you look back, you realise it’s been going bad for a long time? You’ve been being boiled alive so slowly you didn’t even notice?”

 

Yes. Yes she does know all about that. She knows it far too well.

 

She nods. “I think so.”

 

“Yeah,” he says as if he’s only just figuring it out for himself. “Yeah it was like that… doesn’t leave you either. You come home to the people you love and...”

 

He cuts himself off so abruptly she hears his teeth click together and when she looks at him, his expression has changed entirely. He’s not relaxed anymore and his mouth is hard, muscle jumping in his jaw.

 

“Captain?”

 

“I don’t want you to worry, Miss Page,” he says, voice low and trembling. “After this morning… Lewis.”

 

“I’m not,” she says frowning. “I’m fine. Nothing happened.”

 

She’s not sure what’s brought this on all of a sudden, why his demeanour has changed so much and how they went from talking about what it was like to come home to him worrying about Lewis again, but obviously something - and she’d wager all the meagre belongings she has that it has something to do with the woman and children in the picture - triggered it and his eyes have gone almost black again and he’s chewing on the inside of his cheek.

 

“I meant what I said. You are safe on my ship,” his voice is strained and he reaches out and touches her shoulder and it feels like a heavy weight pinning her to the spot. “I will not let anything happen to you. Not on my watch.”

 

“I know,” she says and she surprises herself by reaching up to cover his hand with hers. “I know, Captain.”

 

She also knows that it’s stupid. There are no guarantees and things happen and no one is ever truly safe… and yet… and yet she believes him. For better or worse, he’s not a man to make promises lightly.

 

“You don’t worry about Lewis,” he says. “He’s just a stupid kid. Filled his head with too many fairytales and superstitious nonsense. You are safe. I swear that on my life.”

 

His fingers twitch under hers and his gaze flickers to her lips and he licks his own and, for a second she thinks he forgets himself. She thinks she might forget herself too. But then he the moment passes and he looks back at her eyes.

 

She thinks that might be worse. She thinks she might just drown.

 

She's opens her mouth to say something - she’s not sure what - anything to stop focusing on him, anything to stop her own gaze drifting to places it shouldn’t, and that’s when they hear Curtis’ wooden leg tapping on the wooden floor, accompanied with a lot of shuffling and the unmistakable sound of Foggy belly-aching about something.

 

Together they turn to see him limping down the corridor, arm slung over Curt’s shoulders as the two of them wrestle their way towards the cabins.

 

“...And then I said to him ‘Matthew Murdock, if you don't send for that woman someone else is going to whisk her away and…’” Foggy stops abruptly as he sees them, face contorting into a mask of different emotions - surprise, confusion, worry, fear - and seemingly not being able to settle on one.

 

“Foggy,” she says as the Captain’s hand falls from her shoulder and leaves her feeling a little off balance for a second.

 

“Karen,” he says dubiously as Curtis steers him closer towards them.

 

She twists Bones’ lead around the Captain’s wrist and steps out of his shadow. “Please Mr Hoyle let me…”

 

“Curtis, please call me Curtis.”

 

“Of course. Curtis, let me help.”

 

Next to her she senses the Captain moving to assist as well but one look at Foggy's face and he stops, rolls back on his heels and guides Bones out of the way.

 

She can't worry about that now. Foggy will either get over his dislike of the Captain or he won't. It's not like there'll be much time for either scenario to play out. They have less than three weeks and she doesn't want to think about how much she doesn't want to think about that.

 

“It's that one,” Curtis says inclining his head towards a door diagonally across from her room. “Shark-Bait set it up this morning.”

 

She goes to it, tugs at the big brass handle and it opens with a loud squeak of the hinges, a puff of warm but fresh air hitting her in the face.

 

The cabin is similar to hers - not quite as big but light and airy and she can see dustmotes dancing in the sunlight - with a decently sized bed and a small side table and two chairs. There’s no desk, but someone has put a few books on the bed and there’s an old sculpture of a large breasted mermaid mounted on the wall, which she eyes suspiciously.

 

She wonders if it was just a fixture or if someone on the ship figured it would help Foggy feel better.

 

She wonders if it _will_ help Foggy feel better.

 

Either way the room is at least a dozen times better than the stuffy infirmary and she's grateful not only that Foggy is well enough to be here, but also because it means her visits will be easier and more comfortable.

 

“I didn't realise you were moving today,” she says but Foggy’s dark look doesn't disappear and his gaze flicks between her and the Captain.

 

“No,” he says. “But I was just getting in Curt’s way there … maybe I'll be getting in the way here too though.”

 

“Stop it,” she says sternly and he scowls even harder but doesn't say anything as she helps Curtis get him to the bed. “He’s been kind to us, you _know_ that. We would both be dead without him,” she adds under her breath.

 

She tries very hard not to think about the Captain just outside the door. Very hard to not think he could be privy to this conversation.

 

But if anyone hears no one gives any indication of it and once Foggy is settled, Curtis takes a step back and pulls a small vial of deep red liquid out of his pocket and puts it on the side table.

 

“Alright,” he says. “That's for the pain. No more than one spoon three times a day - don't think I didn't see you having a second spoon after breakfast.

 

“Stay in bed, rest and keep the wound clean. I'll be in to check on you a bit later but I'm sure you'll get much better in here. Oh and Miss Page, Captain says I need to have a look at your hand. Just come round to the infirmary when you get a chance.”

 

The truth is she'd almost forgotten about her hand. It doesn't pain her anymore and the bandages are clean.

 

Curtis flashes them both a kind smile, steps out of the room and Karen hears him talking softly to the Captain in the corridor but can't make out what they're saying.

 

“So what was that all about?” Foggy asks in a low voice.

 

“What was what all about?”

 

“Oh come on Karen, you know what I mean. You and Captain Frank staring into each other’s eyes like you’re about to...”

 

“Don't be ridiculous Foggy.”

 

“I'm not the one being ridiculous,” he says under his breath. “The man is a monster and you're not scared of him at all.”

 

“Maybe I'm not,” she snaps and then glances to the door and lowers her voice. “He's been good to us. Decent. He's not a bad man Foggy.”

 

“Tell that to all those people he's killed.”

 

She rolls her eyes. “I'm not doing this with you. We just go around in circles and you know there's nothing we can do. This is our lot until we get to land again and until…”

 

“Miss Page?”

 

The Captain’s voice is deep and heavy behind her, and she hopes Foggy misses the little shiver that meanders down her spine and the way the tiny hairs on her arms stand on end, but she doubts it. Today’s apparently not the day she gets to keep any secrets for herself.

 

She takes a breath, turns to see him standing in the doorway, one foot in the room and one still in the passageway.

 

“Yes?”

 

He holds out Bones’ lead. “Your charge, Miss Page.”

 

“Thank you,” her fingers brush his briefly as she takes the rope and she thinks they both pull back a little sharper than necessary.

 

“I’ll send Shark-Bait Jonny up with something for you to eat,” he says to Foggy.

 

Foggy doesn't say anything and pretends he didn't hear.

 

Karen rolls her eyes. “That’s very kind of you.”

 

“I'll see you later then Miss Page,” he says as he steps back into the corridor. “Foggy.”

 

“That's Mr Fogg to you,” Foggy says quietly, but still loud enough for everyone to hear. The Captain nods sharply but he can't disguise the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

 

He takes his leave and she turns back to the bed, looks at Foggy lying there with an expression on his face that could curdle milk and a hook in his brow that makes him look like a stern schoolmaster Karen had when she was ten years old who was quick with his cane and slow with his lessons.

 

“Not a word,” she says as he opens his mouth “... And _‘Mr_ _Fogg_ ’? What on earth was that?”

 

If anything he looks pleased with himself.

 

“Everyone on this ship is Mr This and Mr That. I also wanted to be a Mister.”

 

“And _Mr Nelson_ wasn't appropriate why?”

 

“Mr Fogg sounds more piratey.”

 

Despite herself she snorts. Foggy can be infuriating and he's really outdoing himself lately but he never fails to make her laugh. Somehow he always manages to bring something - some small silver lining - to almost any situation.

 

Also it distracts her from the truth of his words… And consequently the lie of them. Because she can't deny that she thought of the Captain and the way he'd touched her arm when they stood by the steam engines, her name rolling off his tongue like honey and his doing the same off hers.

 

She was Karen. He was Frank.

 

It means something even if it doesn't.

 

And then Foggy starts again.

 

“Miss _Page_?” he drawls, dropping his voice low and doing what she imagines is his attempt at mimicking the captain. “Miss Page, I’d like to show you my mizzen mast...”

 

She purses her lips.

 

“Stop it Foggy. That’s not funny… or proper.”

 

She doesn’t care about proper - not at all - but it does have the effect of sobering him up a little and he looks at her suspiciously for a good few seconds and then at Bones.

 

“Alright, I’ll stop,” he says. “But then you have to tell me what’s going on with the hound.”

 

This is a question she can answer.

 

She sighs, pulls up a chair and asks if he remembers the scabby dog on _Scylla_ and he shakes his head.

 

“I had a few other things to worry about at the time,” he says. “Like keeping my blood in my body.”

 

So she tells him about what happened, how the Captain asked for her help and how she needs something to do or she'll go mad on this boat while they drift around the ocean. Surprisingly Foggy doesn't have anything sarcastic to say to that.

 

He looks at Bones for a long time and holds out his hand to her, but she doesn't do anything and his brow furrows.

 

“Not friendly, is she?”

 

“It's not that,” she says. “She’s terrified. I'm hoping she can at least get used to people before we leave.”

 

He nods. “Don’t you think she’ll be scared of me though.”

 

She narrows her eyes, lets a small smile creep onto her face. “Just how scary do you think you are … Mr Fogg?”

 

He scowls at her, opens his mouth to say something when there’s a tentative knock on the door and Shark Bait Jonny fills the doorway, holding out a very sad looking excuse for a sandwich on a wooden plate.

 

He doesn't say much but his grin is broad and his face turns the colour of an overripe tomato when she thanks him.

 

He stutters out a “ma'am”, tips an imaginary hat to her and leaves in much the same way he did before, hooked hand scratching up the wood panelling as he goes.

 

“Goddamn it Shark-Bait,” she hears the Captain shout from his quarters.

 

“You're making quite the impression here,” Foggy says as she hands him the sandwich.

 

She really really needs that not to be true. Shark-Bait Jonny is one thing - he seems sweet and harmless, awkward and a little goofy - but the captain is a different story entirely and not even for the obvious reasons, not even because of his kind eyes and cruel hands, or the quick way both those things can change.

 

She has cruel hands too. She thinks of the pistol snug against her spine. She thinks of the seven holes she put in James Wesley. She thinks of the other things she's done.

 

“What's up Karen?” Foggy takes a bite of his bread and looks at it in disgust, turns it over in his hands searching for flecks of sawdust. “What’s on your mind?”

 

They said they wouldn't lie. They said they wouldn't keep secrets, not here, not on this ship where the sharks might as well be circling on the deck as in the ocean, even if she doesn't believe that. They promised. But she can't tell him she's thinking about the Captain and his dark eyes and heavy voice. She can't tell him that when he looks at her she sees something in his eyes that reminds her more of herself than she cares to admit.

 

She can't tell him any of this so she doesn't.

 

In any case there are far more pressing matters afoot.

 

She goes to the door, looks out into the passageway which is empty and the pulls it shut.

 

“Foggy, do you know what James Wesley wanted with us?” she asks, sitting down again.

 

“No, how would I know that?”

 

“Well he came after us for a reason. He wasn't just looking for a random ship to blow up. He knew where we were going to be and when… we can't pretend it wasn't calculated.”

 

He shrugs. “It is odd, but I don't have any answers Karen. I had barely heard about him before he shot me…

 

“I obviously didn't make a very good first impression.”

 

“To know you is to love you Foggy,” she says with a lightness she doesn't feel and he grins at her.

 

“This is what I keep telling everyone.”

 

She tries to match his mood but can't quite do it.

 

“Don’t be surprised if Mr Lieberman comes to ask you about it. I think they know something and they’re trying to figure out if we do.”

 

Foggy frowns. “There really is nothing to know.”

 

“Yeah, we know that but if they have information or even a theory on why the Admiral was after us, wouldn’t you like to know too?”

 

He nods, takes another bite of his sandwich and looks at it in disgust. “Yeah, yeah I would.”

 

“Just answer his questions, I think they know something we don’t… and maybe we do know something. Maybe we just don't know that we know it,” she says.

 

“What do you mean?”

 

She touches Bones’ head gently. “Maybe something happened back in New York?”

 

“Like what?”

 

“I don't know, Mr Lieberman was asking me a bunch of questions this morning, he seemed very intrigued that you and Matt were lawyers.”

 

Foggy frowns. “I can't see what that has to do with anything.”

 

“I think maybe he thinks you upset someone. Maybe there was a case you lost or won or something…”

 

“Karen, I mean sure, that's a great plot for one of those stories they put in the papers every week, but it's not like any of our clients would have had an admiral in his pocket who'd be happy to travel halfway across the world just to scare us a little. Most of them were either petty criminals or needing advice on purchasing land. And we stopped working with the only one who had any real cash.”

 

“Why?”

 

He shrugs. “Matt said we should stop. He didn't give me any reasons even though I asked. Said I needed to trust him.”

 

Yeah, she's heard that before.

 

“What was the case about?”

 

He bites his lip. “Karen I really can't tell you about this kind of…”

 

“Oh come on Foggy, we are in the middle of nowhere. Who am I going to tell?”

 

He sighs, takes a bite of his sandwich and then glares at it for existing, swallows it down without chewing. “Old man came in, said his name was Owlsley and wouldn't you know Karen, he looked just like an owl - little glasses and all. He said he was an accountant and his boss was looking to buy up land, wanted to know if Matt and I could do the conveyancing. Said he'd pay whatever we wanted, bragged a bit about the boss having one of those big old airships...

 

“We did a little work - they paid well - and then one day Matt just said we were taking them off the books. So we did. Never said anything more than that.”

 

She frowns. “Maybe he was angry you stopped working for him and he…”

 

“So he hired a crooked admiral he keeps around just for this reason to kidnap us and what? Make Matt and me work for him…? That's a really terrible plan Karen.”

 

“Maybe…” but even as she says it she realises it seems far-fetched. Still it doesn't feel like she's looking in entirely the wrong place.

 

“No,” Foggy says. “It wasn't even a few weeks worth of work and he was gone. Not even Matt could upset someone in that amount of time.”

 

That's not entirely true but she doesn't correct him.

 

“Well just let me know if Mr Lieberman comes to talk to you…” she glances at his sandwich. “Don't be surprised if he tries to bribe you with good food.”

 

Foggy wipes crumbs off his chin. “I might just take that bribe. That was the worst sandwich I think I ever had.”

 

“That’s because Mr Lieberman isn’t on cook duty anymore.”

 

“Well whoever is should be thrown overboard,” Foggy says.

 

“I’ll let you know when I find them,” she says. “Seriously though, let me know if he comes to talk to you or tells you anything.”

 

Foggy nods.

 

“Why don’t you just ask your Captain?” he says. “Looks like he’ll tell you anything.”

 

“Let it go Foggy. It’s not a thing,” she sighs and stands up, takes another looks at the ostentatious mermaid and her ridiculous bosoms.

 

“Hey, where are you going?”

 

“I’ve got a dog to fix,” she says tugging Bones’ lead. “Also the second in command is making some announcement around about now.”

 

“About what?”

 

“I don't know,” she says opening the door and feeling a cool rush of air from the corridor. “But I’m going to find out.”


	8. A blessing and a curse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so sorry this took a while - life has been stupidly stressful for the last couple of weeks and is probably going to continue that way for the next month or so.
> 
> Also I struggled my stupid ass off with this chapter because I always do with chapters that have a lot of set up and I get antsy thinking they are lagging and not exciting enough. And Shark-Bait Jonny is giving me lots of issues with his importance in this story.
> 
> Anyway, hope you enjoy and drop me a review if you want to tell me about it.

The sun is just starting to set when Karen walks up onto the deck, Bones following timidly behind her. The sky is awash with deep oranges and reds, and the azure blue of the ocean is so bright it almost makes her eyes hurt. She wonders why she never noticed it on those days they spent on  _ The Firefly _ ; surely there must have been evenings as beautiful as this one. Surely there must have been times like this.

 

She wonders if she's starting to understand what the Captain meant when he told her the sea isn’t boring if you know what look for.

 

_ (The colour, the waves, the tides. At night, the moon.) _ __  
  


She thinks she would like to see the moon hanging in the black sky and shining over the ocean. It would be beautiful - a silver blessing and a promise for those lost at sea. And she doesn't question it when she imagines the Captain beside her as she does. 

 

The wind lifts her hair and the smell of the sea is so sharp it burns her nostrils and makes her eyes water. It's not exactly a cold evening - not yet at least - but she burrows into her coat and wonders if she can find something warm to put over Bones as well. The poor, sad excuse for a dog has no fur and no meat on her either - even the slightest chill is likely to blow right through her. And if there's one soul on this ship that deserves comfort and good things, it's Bones with her sad eyes and her broken spirit.

 

It occurs to Karen then, as she stands there not doing much of anything other than soaking up the waning sunlight that, when the time comes, there's a part of her that might actually find leaving this ship behind her very hard; that on some level she's become comfortable here and she’s made bonds she didn't intend to make. The thought leaves her uneasy and a little adrift and she pushes it away, locks it down tightly underneath a multitude of her other worries and tries very hard to concentrate on the more pressing issues like Foggy's health and Bones and whatever it is that Mr Russo wants to tell them. 

 

She tells herself she doesn’t have the time or space to be sentimental about this. She tells herself she's going home, wherever or whatever home may be. She tells herself this is nothing more than a detour and soon she'll be Mrs Matthew Murdock and her life will go back to being stable and ordinary.

 

She tells herself a lot of things. Some of those things hurt her heart and crush her spirit. Some of those things run like poison through her veins.

 

Some of these things could be called lies.

 

Deep breath. In. Out. Then another. In. Out. In. Out. She’s survived a lot. She’ll survive leaving this ship too and she stops herself before she starts questioning why she sees being here among this band of pirates and their Punisher captain as living and leaving as surviving.

 

Some doors aren’t meant to be opened. Some doors open whether you want them to or not.

 

Deep breath. 

 

In.

 

Out.

 

Calmer now, she takes a few steps towards the bow, glancing at the men already waiting on the deck. Most of them are gathered in small groups, talking or resting their arms on the gunwale and staring at the sea, smoking pipes or chewing tobacco. Spitting. Every now and then, there's a bout of uproarious laughter usually following some lewdly butchered attempt at an old song.

 

Gunner stands at the helm - he's smoking too, one gigantic hand holding an equally gigantic pipe, the other resting on the ship’s wheel, seemingly unconcerned with charting a particularly accurate course. She's not worried though. She's come to realise this crew knows what it's doing better than most. 

 

She can't see Curtis or Mr Lieberman anywhere and, like he said he wouldn't be, the Captain isn't there. Neither is Lewis and that’s a small blessing if nothing else. Shark-Bait Jonny is also missing.

 

No one pays her any heed though. No one leers or sniggers and lewdness seems entirely reserved for old songs. She is safe, just like he said she would be. Still, it doesn’t stop her feeling a little exposed, standing there alone with a mangy dog, attending a meeting that for all intents and purposes has nothing to do with her, and she wonders if she should just abandon this and return to her quarters - get herself and Bones out of the chilly wind and leave the crew to their own business. 

 

But then she hears a commotion behind her and Shark-Bait Jonny emerges from one of the trapdoors to the lower deck, and when he sees her his grin is wide and his face turns red as a tomato and it only gets redder when she says his name and waves him over.

 

“Miss Page,” he says ducking his head and giving Bones a gentle pat as he draws level with her.

 

She narrows her eyes, flashes him a smile.

 

“I think you can call me Karen,” she says. 

 

There’s a moment she thinks he will refuse. He looks entirely flustered as if he doesn’t know what to do with her request and thinks the safest option would be to just refuse it. But then he seems to find some deeply hidden reserve of confidence, or even charisma and he looks her straight in the eye.

 

“Yes,” he says. “If you would like me to.”

 

“I would.”

 

She nods and he grins again, stares at his feet and kicks at some imaginary stone with the toe of his boot, takes a deep breath like he's about to say something and then stops abruptly, biting back his words. He does this a few more times, hands twitching nervously and eyes flitting between her, Bones and the ocean and then back again.

 

She decides to put him out of his misery.

 

“Have you been on the crew long?” she asks.

 

For a second she doesn't think he'll answer, that he'll just stand there smiling at her or turn around and walk away - Shark-Bait Jonny is nothing if not wildly awkward - but eventually he nods his head.

 

“About two years,” he stammers and then clears his throat. “Captain got me out of a right pickle, so I said I'd work off the debt on the ship,” he stops, considers this briefly. “He said I didn't need to but I had nowhere else to go, so I guess this is home now.”

 

There's something in the way he speaks, something in his phrasing that tells her this was much more than just a pickle and that, like most of the men on this ship, there's more to him than meets the eye, even if pretty much all that meets her eyes right now is the beet redness of his face.

 

She's about to press him for details but suddenly Billy appears from the lower deck, hair blowing in the wind and clothes looking far too crisp and clean for a pirate ship. He glances around at the crew and the ocean and the sunset, and when he sees her he gives her a slightly bemused look and his teeth flash like fangs as he smiles.

 

Behind him Curtis and Mr Lieberman emerge from out of the trapdoor too and she's pleased to see Mr Lieberman’s hat is as big as ever and that during the course of the day he seems to have added a bright blue feather to it too. 

 

“Captain doesn’t like it,” Mr Lieberman tells her and she chuckles.

 

“Of course he doesn’t.”

 

“It's because he’s not a real pirate.”

 

She’s about to ask if Mr Lieberman’s sole criteria for judging pirates is the size of their hats when Billy starts to speak and all eyes snap to him as he strides across the deck to stand on an old wine vat. The rich orange sunlight turns his dark hair almost amber as the breeze lifts it and she suspects that's exactly the kind of drama he wanted. 

 

“All right you lot. We've got some new rules until we reach land, so clean the wax out of your ears and listen, because they're for all of you.”

 

He doesn't look at her. Truly he doesn't, but she can't help but feel that he wants to and he's forcing himself to keep his eyes on the rest of the crew.

 

“We've had one too many accidents on this ship lately - gets the Captain all kinds of angry -  and I can't take the chance that one of you is going to set off a keg of gunpowder or shoot yourself in the foot by accident… lose a limb because you got careless,” He looks to her then but his gaze settles on Jonny. “We don't all want to end up like Shark-Bait over there.”

 

There's a few chuckles and Jonny grins so wide she wonders again that his face doesn't split in two. There's something under it though. Something a little wistful. Melancholy even. 

 

“So,” Billy continues, coat flapping in the wind and making him look one of those dashing men on the front cover of Mr Lieberman’s books. “There's a few rules you're going to need to heed and there will be rationing and duty penalties if you don't…” he pauses, quick smile flitting over his face. “We might even give Wilson a break from lookout duty and let me tell you, you don't want to be sitting in that crow’s nest during a storm.” He looks a bit behind her and Jonny and when she follows his gaze, she's startled to see Lewis standing so close to them. “Ain't that right, Lewis?”

 

The rest of the crew chuckles but Lewis doesn't seem to appreciate the joke; instead he glances from Billy to her and then across the deck to Curtis.

 

“No,” he says seriously. “You don't.”

 

“From the horse's mouth,” Billy says.

 

Lewis doesn't like that either and he looks reproachfully at the rest of the crew before his gaze settles on her again. Strangely though, she doesn't feel particularly fearful of him and she wonders if that makes her naive or brave. If anything she almost feels a little sorry for him. He's much younger than almost anyone else on the ship. He's lost and alone and seems to be the brunt of a number of jokes, and it's obvious to her he doesn't have the good-natured stoicism of Shark-Bait Jonny or the apathy of Mr Lieberman to just ignore it. And while Lewis’ behaviour hasn't been particularly good up to now, the Captain and Billy's exasperation with him probably doesn't help either. She wonders if a little kindness might go a way to making him feel better. She wonders who would be able to give it to him.

 

Above her some gulls caw and one swoops down so close to Jonny that he spooks as it tries to peck at a pouch on his belt.

 

“Stealing jerky again Shark-Bait?” Billy asks and Jonny stutters out a no that sounds very much like a yes as he tries to bat the bird away, almost standing on Karen’s toes in the process.

 

A ripple runs through the crew and Lewis seems to relax with the attention taken off him.

 

“So you going to tell us these rules?” asks Gunner. “Or do we have to guess them? Is there a prize if we get them right?”

 

Billy smirks.

 

“Alright,” he runs a hand through his hair. “Number one, you all need to wear gloves and cover your face when you're working near the steam engines, whether they're on or not. You numbskulls never check to see when they're on… just yesterday Shady Cooper burnt his left hand so badly we could have added it to Shark-Bait's jerky stash. Curtis spent the whole day trying to make sure he didn't lose it.

 

“Ain't that so, Mr Hoyle?”

 

“Aye,” Curtis nods and Billy glances at her again.

 

“So gloves and masks. No exceptions.”

 

“Shady Cooper couldn't find his godforsaken ass if you drew him a map,” someone says.

 

Billy nods. “That's true. Still, gloves and masks. No exceptions.”

 

A few people mutter and Karen sees some eyerolls, but no one objects.

 

“Secondly, there's no fire - and that means no smoking either - next to any explosives. So even if you're just near the gunpowder kegs, do not light up your pipe or anything else stupid. I shouldn't need to tell you this but common sense is in short supply on this boat.”

 

No one even mutters about that and Karen has the distinct impression that these “rules” are just a smokescreen for something else that Billy and the Captain are hoping to sneak through in the name of safety.

 

A few seconds later she's proved right.

 

“Finally, all pistols or other firearms, crossbows, as well as any blades you don't need for everyday work - this includes cutlasses - will be stored in the armoury from now on. I'll have a key and the Captain will have the other. Make sure you bring them to me by midday tomorrow.

 

“So that’s all. It’s simple.”

 

Except it’s not. It’s not simple at all.

 

It’s terribly, horribly, overwhelmingly complicated. 

 

Karen’s heard people say their heart dropped into their boots. Truth be told, her heart has spent a lot of time in her own boots over the years. It’s spent a lot of time under other people’s boots too - being trampled on and kicked by the very people who she’s entrusted it to believing they will care for it. This is not the same. Not quite, at least. No one has hurt her, no one has betrayed her and no one has played with her feelings like they’re children’s toys. And yet, the sinking feeling as the words leave Billy Russo’s mouth is so familiar that she has to clamp both her hands over her mouth to stop herself from gasping loud enough that the whole crew would hear.

 

Billy doesn’t look at her as he dusts some imaginary dirt of his hands, hops down from the vat - but he doesn’t need to. He doesn’t need to say anything either, because while the rest of the crew might be standing there slack-jawed and trying to figure out where this entirely ridiculous rule came from, she already knows. It’s because of her. It’s all because of her and Lewis Wilson and how the Captain is making good on his promise to keep her safe … at any cost. 

 

And she’d bet the ship that this cost is too high.

 

There’s absolute silence for a moment - even the sea is quiet and the gulls stop cawing - and then like some invisible barrier has been pierced, everyone starts talking at once.

 

Some are asking questions, others are complaining loudly; even Shark-Bait Jonny is clenching his good hand into a fist and glaring at Billy. She turns and behind them Lewis’ face is white as a sheet, except for the tips of his ears which are bright red. His eyes flash ice blue when they meet hers and his mouth twists into a terrible grimace. 

 

He knows, she thinks to herself. The others don’t but he does.

 

But then he’s forcing his way forward and she’s suddenly not so sure anymore. He seems entirely focused on Mr Russo and barely spares her a second glance as he elbows Gunner out the way and shoves past Jonny as he makes his way to the front of the crowd.

 

“Think they’ll settle down?” Mr Lieberman sounds bored.

 

Curtis shrugs. “Some of them.”

 

“Your young friend isn’t going to be happy.”

 

“He never is.” Curtis sounds tired, resigned even.

 

She doesn’t blame him; not too far away Lewis is shouting, calling to Billy and saying his name over and over, voice quivering but getting incrementally louder all the time until it starts drowning out everything else.

 

_ Russo. Hey Russo. Billy. Billy Russo. Russo. RUSSO. RUSSO. RUSSO GODDAMNIT LISTEN TO ME! _

 

“Oh look, here it comes,” Mr Lieberman sighs and judging by the grim look on Curtis’ face, he’s right.

 

_ LISTEN TO ME, DAMN YOU, BILLY RUSSO!!!!! _

 

The silence that descends this time is colder, laced with anxiety and a considerable amount of fear and it happens so quickly Karen half expects her ears to pop. 

 

No one speaks, no one even moves, and the shock is almost palpable in dusk air. She's sure if she reached out she could touch it and it would feel thick and hot and wholly unpleasant. 

 

Even on this ship - or maybe especially on this one - this isn't the way subordinates speak to commanding officers. The Captain might have a strange and somewhat twisted view of morality (although when Karen looks at Bones and remembers how he scooped her up in his arms and saved her from a terrible fate, she’s not even sure that's an accurate assessment of him) but he's profoundly immovable when it comes to matters of respect and nobility. 

 

Someone coughs nervously and then all eyes settle on Mr Russo who has frozen mid-stride, coat swirling around his legs. For a brief moment Karen thinks he might just carry on walking, disappear below deck and leave them all to fight it out amongst themselves. But then he frowns, and she's close enough to see how he contorts his face into a mask of fake surprise before he turns around.

 

“What is it?” He asks and she's both impressed and unsettled by how smoothly he hides the fact that he knows exactly what it is. “What’s wrong with you all?”

 

He deliberately looks past Lewis too, like he's nothing more than an annoyance who couldn't possibly have anything important to say.

 

There's a heavy pause, and then he's being pelted with a hundreds of questions at once, Lewis’ voice being drowned out by gruffer, deeper sounds. There's a chorus of whys and hows. A few people are asking whose idea it was - she hears the captain's name once or twice - and others are already getting down to the practicalities of it all: what to do in an emergency or whether their pocket knives need to be surrendered too.

 

Billy doesn't say anything for what seems like a long while but eventually he holds up his hands and walks back to the vat, kicks it so it's back in the last of the sunlight and stands on it again.

 

“Alright,” he says. “One at a time. Slowly.”

 

Immediately about a dozen hands fly into the air, including Jonny’s hook which glints gold, and Billy gives an indulgent smile before pointing to him.

 

“How long is this for?” Jonny asks.

 

“At least until we get to Barbados, or until we have another bounty.”

 

“Why now?”

 

“Safety,” Billy says curtly and immediately turns away to take a question from Gunner.

 

“What if we're attacked?” 

 

“Then you'll get your weapons back,” he says. 

 

“And if there's no time?” 

 

“Who's going to attack us here?” He asks. “We've done this journey a hundred times. These are not dangerous waters.”

 

The crowd shifts a little and quietens down considerably. She thinks maybe this might end here and they can all go back to normal. But it's not to be.

 

Billy is just about to get off the vat again when Lewis’ voice cuts through the quiet.

 

“No,” he says. He somehow manages to sound firm and frightened at the same time.

 

Billy ignores him.

 

“If there's nothing else…”

 

“I said no,” Lewis says and pushes his way to the front of the crowd so that he’s standing directly in front of the vat.  

 

He looks small and Billy looks big. She wonders if he even realises it, if he has any idea of how out of his depth he might be.

 

Apparently he doesn't.

 

“You can't make us give up our weapons.”

 

Like before when the Captain was addressing them and Lewis started making a scene the crowd splits. She's come to realise that Lewis isn't divisive in the sense that he has some people who agree with him and others who oppose him. He's quite the opposite. It seems like if he's on one side, the crew automatically don't want the association and skip to the other regardless of what's at stake.

 

She wonders if Billy and the Captain weren't counting on exactly this.

 

Billy glares down at him. “I can make you do a lot of things.”

 

“I'm not giving up my pistol,” he says. “Or my cutlass.”

 

“It ain't your pistol or your cutlass,” Billy says. “It's the ship's.”

 

Lewis shakes his head. “It was given to me… in good faith.”

 

“And can be taken away in the same way,” Billy sighs then, pretends to indulge him but when he speaks even he can't hide the icy irritation in his voice. “This isn't a problem, unless you all plan on shooting or stabbing someone on the ship… you're not planning on that are you, Lewis?”

 

There's a momentary silence and she feels Mr Lieberman’s hand on her arm, pulling her and Bones backwards.

 

“Lewis?” Billy asks again, and this time she's absolutely sure he's fighting not to let his eyes stray to her.

 

Lewis scowls, his fingers twitching.

 

“I asked you a question,” Billy says as the crew takes another step back.

 

The silence stretches long and thin and she feels Curtis tensing next to her and sees Lewis shaking with fury, and then he blurts out a snarl that sounds like a “no” and all but throws himself down the ladder to the lower deck, Curtis following as fast as he can.

 

There's another brief silence and Billy shrugs, looks out over the sea, eyes flickering to her again and then away.

 

“Anyone else?” He asks.

 

There's a little shuffling, a few coughs but no one says anything.

 

“Midday tomorrow then,” Billy steps off the vat. “I’ll be in the mess hall.”

 

He nods at her once before disappearing into the lower deck, leaving the crew stone-faced and confused to break off into smaller groups and talk in hushed angry whispers.

 

She looks from Mr Lieberman, to Gunner to Shark-bait Jonny and can’t help the horrible roiling feeling in her belly nor the shiver that goes through her that has nothing to do with the sharp breeze or the ocean air.

 

~~~

 

“He's taking our guns away. He doesn't want us to be able to defend ourselves.”

 

“Is that so, kid?”

 

Frank steps away from the map on the wall and puts his quill down on his desk. Truth is he expected this but he was still a little surprised with how little time it took Lewis to come to him, especially considering the altercation they’d already had this morning. 

 

“All of them,” Wilson says and little flecks of white spittle fly from his lips. 

 

He's trembling and his hands are balled into fists, knuckles turning white with a small thin ring of red around each, but his voice is like it always is: mumbly, muted, doing nothing to disguise the rage behind it but trying nonetheless.

 

Frank sighs. This shouldn’t have got this far. He had reservations about Lewis from the beginning and so did Billy and it was only because of Curtis’ gentle prompting and infallible belief that everyone deserves a chance that he was even allowed onto the ship. He knows now they should have said no. He thinks Curtis might know it too. Good will and good intentions only go so far.

 

“Mr Russo is in charge of the crew,” Frank says, sitting down in his chair and moving some old pieces of parchment around. “This ain’t my call.”

 

“You're the captain! You can make him change it. You can overrule him. It's your ship, you can do anything you want.”

 

Yes, he can. The same way Captain Rawlins could have changed all Mr Schoonover’s rules.

 

“Wilson, I'm sure Mr Russo had a very good reason for this…”

 

“I told you. He doesn't want us to be able to defend ourselves.”

 

“Yeah? Why would he want that? We're all on the same ship. If it goes down, Mr Russo goes down with it.”

 

Lewis starts to say something but then his mouth snaps shut as he considers this and finds no retort forthcoming.

 

He stands there for a few seconds, hands clenching and unclenching, words stuck in the back of his throat.

 

“If that's all…” Frank says testily.

 

“Maybe he plans to betray us.” 

 

Again, his voice is that horrible mumble, a monotone that tries to disguise his true fury and fails, and yet somehow makes him come off worse than if he had given into some of his anger.

 

“That's a senior officer you're talking about, kid.”

 

“Maybe he wants to leave us defenceless.”

 

“Wilson...”

 

“Maybe he plans on taking the ship for himself, stealing it from you.”

 

“Goddamnit,” Frank stands up, knocking his ink pot over and sending a few papers flying to the floor. “Billy Russo is your executive officer. You will show some respect and not just mouth off with whatever bullshit is in your head.”

 

“Captain…”

 

“Maybe he’s right - you aren’t fit to have a weapon.”

 

Surprisingly Wilson doesn’t object to that, doesn’t go mouthing off about how it’s his pistol or cutlass, doesn’t even try and counter with stories of how well he’s trained with a sword or how accurate he is with a gun. Instead he looks down at his boots, which are scuffed and the leather is moth eaten, bites his lip like he’s trying desperately to stop the words coming out of his mouth. But Lewis never was one who could hold his tongue and when he looks up his eyes are almost black and for a moment so brief it’s gone before it’s even really there, Frank is almost convinced he’s looking at a skull and not a man.

 

“We're already in trouble. We're in so much trouble. Why can't you see it? Why won't you listen?”

 

“Is this about that damn albatross again? Or the name of the ship? Or did you cut your hair on the wrong day? Goddamnit kid, these things aren't real. They're bullshit and everyone whose seen more than ten summers knows it. Didn't your father ever show you how to tell the difference between what's real and what ain't?”

 

Wilson goes quiet then, but he’s stopped fidgeting. He looks at the ground again, those old scuffed boots and then at the map, the desk, the rug on the floor, the window and the sea outside.

 

“Bad luck is real Captain, and there’s so much of it on this ship,” he says and that’s when his eyes shift to the door for an infinitesimally small moment before he catches himself. It's so quick that Frank wonders if he's mistaken but then Wilson does it again and his shivering hands clench into fists.

 

And even though Frank doesn't want to say it because somehow giving voice to it makes it feel more real than it really is, he knows has to.

 

“I hope you're not talking about Miss Page.” 

 

He thinks Wilson won't answer, he'll stay staring at the ground, mumble out something incoherent about whatever superstitious bullshit he has in his head. But he doesn't. 

 

Instead he squares his shoulders, steels himself and looks Frank square in the eye.

 

“She's bad luck. We all know it. A woman on board for too long and we'll all be sleeping in Davy Jones’ locker before the month is out. Sea monsters, Captain… they come for women's blood,” he takes a deep breath as if a weight has been lifted off his shoulders. 

 

“What in the seven hells are you talking about?”

 

“Women's blood,” he says again. “Moon blood. It's their curse and they'll come for hers. For Karen Page.”

 

His voice, although steady and assured has a hint of genuine fear in it. But underneath that, hiding behind it, is something else. Something that sounds like loathing and disgust. 

 

Some of the legends - stories, really - about the dread Captain and his crew of miscreants paint Frank Castle as unhinged, a man unable to control his rage, a man so wrapped up in his anger that he can't help himself. Those stories are about as true about the ones about him conjuring sea monsters or scaring old ladies in their cellars. His self-control is much like everything else about him: precise, rigid, calculated. He doesn't start fights he can't win. He doesn't run off into the great unknown without a thought for the safety of the crew and when he makes a move he knows the outcome before it's played out.

 

And yet, there's something about Karen Page's name on Lewis Wilson's lips that conjures up a different kind of monster inside him, woman's blood or not. And it's vicious and raw and it has teeth that snap and a mouth that snarls and for a moment all he feels is a red rage pumping through his veins that he's only come to associate with  _ her _ and  _ them _ and murdering and punishing.

 

He's not sure how it happens but one second he's standing behind his desk and the ringing in his ears is drowning out the sound of sea and also Lewis’ voice and the next he's striding across the room, one hand closing around Lewis’ jaw, the other pressing so hard under his collarbone that Lewis lets out a strangled whimper as his head connects with the wood of the door, a dull thud echoing down the passage that feels loud enough to fill the whole world and possibly the realm beyond this one too.

 

Somewhere Frank thinks it's a good sound. It's the sound of skulls cracking and bones breaking. It’s the sound of punishment and revenge.

 

Redemption.

 

No. Not yet. Not redemption. Soon though. One day.

 

Someone's breathing very fast - he's not sure if it's him or Lewis, but he can feel himself shaking, little sparks of adrenalin shooting through his limbs, making his fingers twitch and turning everything that familiar shade of red he sees when the world rights itself and he gets to mete out even an ounce of the justice it deserves.

 

It's a terrible thing. A wonderful, exhilarating, terrible, terrible thing.

 

_ She _ would hate it. He knows  _ she _ would. 

 

No matter - she's not here to hate it. She hasn't been for a long time.

 

He stays like that for a long moment, fingers digging into Lewis’ face so hard he can feel the bones in his jaw grinding together and the ridges of his teeth under his gums and Lewis lets out another whimper, this one closer to a sob.

 

Frank hushes him but doesn't let go, holding his head still and pressing upwards so he can see Wilson's eyes.

 

“I'm only going to say this once, so listen carefully,” he stops, cocks his head and lets the moment stretch. “You listening, kid? You'd really best be listening.”

 

When Wilson does nothing, he shifts his grip, squeezes a little tighter and moves Wilson's head up and down in a terrible parody of a nod. 

 

“All right, good, that's very good,” he says and waits for Wilson to focus on him, feels almost taken aback by the defiant flash in his eyes when he does. The kid is nothing if not infuriatingly stubborn.

 

“Miss Page is my guest on this ship. Do you understand that?” He moves Wilson's head again, harder this time, and his skull makes a dull  _ thunk thunk thunk _ sound against the door. “I have promised her no harm will come to her.

 

“Do you know me to be a man who breaks my promises?”

 

He waits a moment before repeating the question and Lewis shakes his head of his own accord.

 

There might be hope for him yet. Not much, but some.

 

“Good. Do we understand each other?”

 

Again he presses his fingers into Lewis’ flesh, knocks his head against the door harder than necessary.

 

There's a kind of ugly exhilaration to this - there always is when his blood is up and it's pumping pure rage through his veins. 

 

“I will end you,” he says softly. “I will end you and a thousand men like you if you so much as lay a finger on her. I've done worse for much less.

 

“Now get out. Get out and I'd best not see your face before we drop the anchor in the Caribbean. 

 

“You will not talk to Karen Page, you will not look at her or think about her and I swear it on the  _ Mea Culpa _ that if I hear you mouthing off about women's blood again, I will cut you and throw you overboard for the sharks and then you can deal with your own blood curse,” he releases Lewis suddenly, takes a step back and lets him slump against the door, breathing hard.

 

After a minute, he touches his face, hands shaking. He seems surprised to find it's still there and relatively unharmed. And then he looks up, eyes flashing hard.

 

“Captain…”

 

“Kid, this conversation is over. Do not make me repeat myself.”

 

There's a horrible silence, protracted and bristly, and there's a moment Frank thinks he might need to bodily remove Wilson from his quarters, but after a few seconds of grinding his teeth and shaking so hard that the whole room seems to vibrate, he turns on his heel and slams the door behind him, leaving nothing but the reminder of his fury behind.

 

~~~

 

After Lewis is gone, Frank waits exactly ten seconds before he hears Miss Page's soft footsteps on the wooden floors and the door to his quarters opens a crack.

 

He sighs, takes a step towards the window, feels the rage start to ebb with the tides outside. “Come in why don't you, Miss Page.”

 

She steps inside and for a second the dying sunlight catches her hair, turning it a gentle gold and making her skin glow, and his breath catches in his throat.

 

It's not a big thing. Not at all. Miss Page is a fine woman and a man would need to be blind not to see as much. Even when he first saw her standing there on the deck of  _ Scylla _ , battered and bruised in her torn petticoats, that silver pistol tucked into her belt, she looked every inch the type of woman who makes grown men a little bit stupid.

 

He himself is not immune to stupidity.

 

But today there's something different and he's not truly sure what it is. All he knows is it's been that way since they stood on the deck together in the waxing morning light and it's still there even as that same light dies outside. Maybe it's the way her eyes flash bluer than the ocean or the way she doesn't bother to knock, maybe it's his coat hanging off her shoulders or the way she's starting to look more like a pirate and decidedly less like a lady every single time he sees her.

 

Maybe it's that silver pistol in her hands and the fact that he knows she could plug him with it and is choosing not to. 

 

It's probably the pistol.

 

“You planning on shooting me?” He asks and she scowls at him but there's little malice behind it.

 

Little. 

 

Some.

 

She's not happy.

 

“He knows you're doing this because of me,” she says and he doesn't bother asking her for context. It would be an insult to her intelligence to pretend to not know what she's talking about.

 

“I'm doing it because having too many unaccounted for weapons around isn’t safe for anyone…”

 

“Don’t lie to me,” she hisses. “Do not do that. Don't ever do that.”

 

For a second he's taken aback by the venom in her voice. It’s sharp and fanged and somewhere underneath all that it's also pleading and desperate and it doesn't take a genius to work out that this comes from a place they've touched on but never in fact discussed. 

 

_ Don't lie.  _

 

Alright. That's fair. He won't. Not to her.

 

He nods, pulls the window shut and faces her again. “You're right. But this is something that should have been done a long time ago. There are too many weapons just laying around on this ship. And having Wilson or any of them near too many weapons is dangerous for everyone.”

 

This is entirely true but she shakes her head and that damn ray of sunlight touches her again.

 

“You can’t take everyone's weapons because of him,” she says. “If you were worried about one man resenting me… when they figure it out, they'll all resent me.”

 

“It would be my guess that the rest of the crew either understand or find it a minor annoyance. As it is you could probably cut off Shark-Bait Jonny's other hand and he'd thank you for it, offer to put a bow on it if you'd prefer.”

 

“You really think so?”

 

“About Shark-Bait Jonny? Yes.”

 

She ignores his attempt at humour and he doesn't blame her. It was a bad joke.

 

“You know what I mean.”

 

Yes. Yes he does.

 

He sighs, holds out his hands.

 

“Miss Page, decisions are made by Billy and myself for the best of the ship and crew…”

 

“And you think you know what's best?”

 

He tries to suppress his smile by pursing his lips.

 

“Well, I am the captain,” he says. “When you lead a successful mutiny and you become captain, then it'll be up to you what we do.”

 

“Don't mock me.”

 

“I'm not. I promise you, I’m not.”

 

That's God's honest truth.

 

She regards him coolly for a few moments but her frown isn't quite so prominent and her eyes less icy. Her face is still hard though and she's looking at him like she sees right through him which, if he's honest, he knows she is.

 

It's been a long time since someone was able to look at him like that. He's not sure how it makes him feel.

 

“Very well,” she says stepping forward and holding out the pistol. “I imagine I can leave this with you and you'll pass it on to Mr Russo.”

 

“Miss Page…” he shakes his head.

 

“Your ship, your rules. Wouldn't want the crew to think you're playing favourites.” 

 

“You're not the crew.”

 

“All the more reason I shouldn't have it then,” she flicks her wrist at him. “Go on. Take it.”

 

She's right. And he knows he's being tested. He's not really sure to what end though. What he is sure of is that Miss Page needs to keep the pistol. She needs it close because even though he knows he's already stupid enough that he's taken on her safety as a personal mission, the thought of leaving her defenceless is not one he can stomach.

 

Even so, her hand is right there in front of his face and despite himself he finds he's reaching forward to cover it with his own, his fingertips running over her knuckles, tracing the bumps and ridges of her hands until his fist closes over hers, pistol gripped firmly between them.

 

It's a strange sensation - the warmth and softness of her skin juxtaposed with the cold hard steel of the gun - but by no means unpleasant. It's different from the way she felt when she wound Russ’ lead around his hands and he did the same for her and yet it feels profoundly like it's part of the same thing, like it's connected in all the ways they shouldn't be connected.

 

He shivers and so does she but when he meets her eyes, they're still stoney, even if there's the hint of a rattle in her chest as she breathes.

 

“Keep it,” he says, voice heavy and hollow. “It's yours. Not mine.”

 

This is true. It's the only weapon on the ship he didn't procure himself. She found it and somehow to him that means she deserves it too. He doesn't have the right to take it away from her.

 

For the second time in a few minutes he's not sure how he feels about Miss Page and something she's making him think about.

 

And then suddenly he's squeezing her hand tighter than before, thumb brushing over hers and he's not sure he's imagining hers doing much the same thing. 

 

Somewhere very far away the sea is lapping at the sides of the ship and a gull is cawing. Somewhere slightly closer the sun is setting and pulling all the air out of room as it does. It turns Miss Page’s hair the colour of fire and makes her skin almost luminous.

 

And this is a problem. This is such a problem.

And he needs to get Miss Page and her grumpy companion as far away from the  _ Mea Culpa  _ as he can as soon as possible, but even the thought of it fills him with a kind of dread he didn't think he could still feel.

 

But then she's breaking the spell and snatching her hand back from his, clasping the little pistol to her chest as she shakes her head.

 

For a wild and entirely exhilarating second he thinks she might actually say something about what just happened. He doesn’t expect it to be anything more than a gentle reprimand about propriety or possibly even an allusion to her betrothed and he can’t really decide if that’s good or bad, but she does neither.

 

Apparently her intended isn’t nearly on her mind as much as he thinks. 

 

She fixes him with what he imagines is an attempt at a hard stare, but she's flustered and she swallows hard. He tries to pretend he doesn't notice how the muscles in her throat move under her skin when she does.

 

“Lewis is frightened, you know?” she says. “That's all he is. He's young and far from home and he has a head full of nonsense.”

 

“Well, you got the last part right.”

 

She frowns and seemingly finds a little of her composure. 

 

“Really? Seems to me if someone listened to him, maybe he wouldn't feel so frustrated.”

 

He huffs, shakes his head. “There’s no listening to him - not if you want sense. Curtis does what he can but Lewis is a loose cannon and he shouldn't be on this ship - he should never have been given this post in the first place and that's something I need to fix.”

 

“So what are you going to do with him then?” she asks tightly. “Toss him overboard? Make him walk the plank?” she pauses. “Leave him in the Caribbean too?”

 

There's something very particular about the way she says this, something that makes him take notice and turn her words over in his head a few times before he settles on both the subtext and intent of her phrasing.

 

He narrows his eyes. “Is that what you think I'm doing?  _ Leaving _ you in the Caribbean?” 

 

It seems to take her a second to grasp his meaning and when she does her jaw drops and her cheeks redden in a way he's only ever seen Shark-Bait Jonny's colour.

 

“No, dear God, no,” her words are quick but her voice trembles. “No, of course not. I'm sorry. You're taking us somewhere safe so we can head home… like we agreed. Like we said before… and it's very noble of you. I'm sorry, I didn't mean...”

 

For some reason she's explaining this to herself. He frowns, cocks his head.

 

“You all right?”

 

She nods furiously, takes a step backwards and then another. “Yes, yes, I'm fine.”

 

She glances at the door and then at the pistol, finally at him.

 

“Miss Page?”

 

“I should go,” she says. “Foggy wants me to show him around the ship tomorrow.”

 

Frank nods even though he has no idea what Mr Nelson's desire to see the  _ Mea Culpa _ has to do with anything. He'd put good money on the possibility that she doesn't either.

 

“Good night Captain,” she says and without a backwards glance she's out the door and he watches the empty space where she was standing for a good few seconds as the sun’s light finally succumbs to the gentle silver glow of the moon.

 

Maybe he was wrong earlier and she  _ did _ address what happened. Maybe, he's not sure.

 

He's not sure about anything really anymore. 

 

Either way she made  _ leaving  _ sound like something else. It sounded like  _ abandoning… _ and then it sounded like a whole lot more than that.

 

He sighs, shakes his head and grabs some matches from his desk and lights a small oil lamp.

 

She does bring up a good point though. 

 

He has no idea what he's going to do with Lewis when they reach land.

 

He ponders this for a few seconds before he realises he has no idea what he's going to do about her either.


	9. Sailor's warning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know if this is a good idea posting today or not, what with TP2 being out. Just a note, I have only seen the Karen episode of TP2. I did not find the trailer compelling in the slightest and haven't really liked the way they took the DD/TP crossover concept and ignored it in DD3. However I can say this - after episode 11, I don't think anyone can deny that Karen and Frank are in love, even though it's the angstiest, saddest, most heartbreaking version of "in love" in the world. 
> 
> Having said that, please be aware that I don't really wish to discuss the season (I can't as I know nothing about it) other than that episode. I know this fic doesn't lend itself to that kind of a discussion but I am probably going to be putting a similar disclaimer on my other WIPs.
> 
> Anyway, hope you enjoy this chapter. This fic is my nice happy escape place.

“We could just go, you know? It's only three days off course and it means the men will have a break, maybe have something fresh to eat, get their feet on dry land ... Knuckles has been complaining he's getting foot rot from being on the ocean too long.”

 

“Knuckles would complain if Aphrodite herself warmed his bed for the night.”

 

Billy shrugs. “True, but I'm not wrong. The men are worried after yesterday. Taking their weapons wasn't a way to endear yourself…” he stops, frowns. “ _...myself _ to them. They need something to lift their spirits.”

 

“Since when has the general state of their spirits been something you've ever cared about?”

 

“My job, Frank. I can't always be the bad guy.”

 

Frank snorts. 

 

They're standing on the bow of the ship watching a weak, yet surprisingly stubborn sun try to break through the clouds. It's a chilly day and the smell of sea water is sharp in air. Above them gulls circle frantically against a bleak grey backdrop of ominous clouds and below the ocean is choppy and unsettled. They both have their hands wrapped around mugs of coffee and Russ is gnawing on a bone at their feet, thumping his tail whenever he hears a name he recognises.

 

“They'll get something nice when we get to Barbados. I'm guessing you ain't the only one with an interest there. Don't know why you'd want to delay.”

 

“Dinah isn't going anywhere.”

 

“She should. We all know she can do better.”

 

Despite himself, Billy smiles. “Yeah… maybe.”

 

“You know it's true.”

 

Billy nods noncommittally, waves off a gull that flies too close to his head. “Hope she has something for us.”

 

“Us…” Frank echoes, rolling his eyes. “Because if she doesn't, it'll be a waste of your time…”

 

“Never said that, Frankie…”

 

Behind them, Shady Cooper is making an almighty racket, leaning over the side of the ship and doing what sounds like hacking up all his internal organs at once. He’s louder than the waves and the gulls combined and when Frank turns to look, he’s a decidedly unhealthy shade of green.

 

“I’m guessing he didn’t listen to Curt about not mixing that pain tonic with booze.”

 

Billy shrugs. “Or it’s just too much booze.” He fiddles with a thin gold chain around his neck, runs a hand through his hair and sips his coffee. “Seriously though, it'll be good for them to stop for a while. Might even get Wilson to stop whining.”

 

“Wilson's whining is the last reason I need to change course. In fact getting rid of him is all the more reason not to stop. You understand that, Bill. You have to.”

 

“Even so.”

 

Frank shakes his head. “No, we have work to do. And I promised Miss Page I would get her to Barbados as soon as I could.”

 

“Ah yes, Miss Page.” Billy doesn't exactly grin but there's something wolfish in his smile - a gleam in his eye - and his incisors scrape across his bottom lip.

 

“Don't you start.”

 

“I wouldn't dream of it. It's just… if you had an extra three days with her … maybe you need...”

 

“Maybe you need to stop talking out of your ass,” Frank says irritably, “It ain't like that.”

 

He hates how petulant he sounds but he hates Billy's knowing and rather unpleasant smile even more.

 

He's about to try and change the subject when there's a flurry of movement behind them and David emerges from the lower deck, Red Pepper on his shoulder squawking loudly and flapping his wings angrily in David's face.

 

“Will you stop it!” David yells, trying to cover his eyes.

 

“Stop it! Stop it!” Red Pepper squawks back digging his talons into David's arm and making him curse loudly.

 

“Oh my god,” Frank says quietly and looks back over the ocean.

 

“Why in the seven hells do you keep him around?” Billy asks.

 

Why indeed.

 

“He makes good bread.”

 

Billy cocks his head, frowns. “You and I have known each other for a long time, there's no way you need good bread that much that you would put up with him.”

 

Frank sighs, runs his thumb over a scab on his knuckles. 

 

David has long been a contentious topic between him and Billy, the same way Billy has long been a contentious topic between him and David. They don't like or trust each other and while Frank wants to be above board about their arrangement, David is adamant that if anyone finds out, the deal is off.

 

“Let's just say… let's just say, David brings a particular set of skills that we need.”

 

“Like what? What purpose does he possibly serve? He's not a navigator, he's not at all skilled with a weapon and I'll kill him myself if I have to listen to him murdering that guitar for another night… I mean, look at that.”

 

Billy jerks his chin towards where David is holding Red Pepper at arms length, head turned away as he begs the bird to calm down.

 

“I'm sorry,” he's saying. “I just wanted another feather for my hat. My feathers were all…”

 

“My feathers! MY FEATHERS!”

 

Frank shakes his head again. Billy has a point. He truly does, and Frank doesn’t actually know how much longer he can hide David’s true purpose and deflect the more astute questions about how exactly they’re choosing where to go and how to find the people he’s looking for. Most of the crew don’t care - they’re happy to go wherever he wants as long as there’s the promise of gold at the end of the journey, but it’s complicated when it comes to those that are more than just crew - people like Billy and Curt. People like Miss Page and the way she makes him feel guilty for things he has no business feeling guilty about.

 

He forces the thought away; he can’t give it room to germinate and grow. He’s  _ leaving  _ her in the Caribbean after all.

 

“Look Bill, don't push this. He's here and he's staying. Maybe for a while.”

 

“Been here a while already.”

 

“He's useful.”

 

Billy eyes him skeptically for what seems like a very long time and then shrugs in a way that says he won't push for now but the conversation isn't over and Frank can expect it to be revisited in one way or another. 

 

“I really think we should go,” he says, changing the subject so abruptly Frank takes a second to realise they've reverted back to the previous conversation. “I really think we should.”

 

“He wouldn't appreciate all of us descending on him out of nowhere.”

 

“He wouldn't mind.”

 

“You sure about that?”

 

“Could make an arrangement. Bed and board and we take some of his wares to Barbados for him, save him the trip.”

 

“Since when did you become so charitable? You didn’t even like him that much.”

 

“Nobody did. That was his job. You of all people should know that.” Billy rolls his eyes. “Come on, you know it's a good idea.”

 

“No, I don’t.”

 

Billy leans further over the gunwale, squints into the distance, where the sun is turning the sky the slightest shade of pink.

 

“He won't judge you, you know. He'd get why you do it… after what happened. Maybe he even expected it.”

 

_ After what happened... _

 

He waits for the sting and, like clockwork, it comes. It's precise and almost exquisite in its agony. It always is.

 

“Sorry,” Billy says in a way that sounds  - and has become - almost routine. Frank waves it off. There’s no need to walk on eggshells anymore. The pain is there and it’s not going away.

 

Behind them David and Red Pepper seem to have come to some kind of agreement which involves David feeding Red his supply of dried apple. Shady Cooper is still coughing - his hacking now sounding decidedly wet and loose in his chest and punctuated with the kind of staccato gulping that only means one thing.

 

“Do not vomit on my ship. Do not do that.” Frank shouts over his shoulder and Shady Cooper’s cheeks bulge horribly and there’s panic in his eyes, but he finds it in himself to nod and then promptly retches three times over the side of the  _ Mea Culpa _ and into the water.

 

“Goddamn cheap rum and tobacco,” Frank says turning back to Billy.

 

Billy nods distractedly. “Just think about it,” he drains the last of his coffee and leans back on the gunwale. “It's really not a bad idea, even if it's not yours.”

 

The sun breaks through the clouds then, and a ray of warmth touches Frank's face. It's weak and diluted but he isn't wearing a coat and it feels like it thaws some of the ice in his bones.

 

Next to him Russ’ ears prick up and his tail starts wagging hard, and then Miss Page is climbing up from the lower deck, blanket over her arm and Bones following her, wrapped in a makeshift coat which he's sure she's pinned together from scraps of torn bed sheets and her own ruined dress. 

 

“You sure you're alright?” she's saying to someone on the lower deck. “I can help you.”

 

“Of course I'm alright!” comes a terse reply. “It's not like I've been shot or anything. It's not like I'm on a pirate ship with the Punisher in the middle of nowhere. It's not like…”

 

“I wasn't asking you,” she snaps. “I was talking to Jonny, having to deal with you and your bellyaching!”

 

“I'm fine Miss Page… Karen,” Shark-bait Jonny's voice is soft and low as he emerges from the lower deck, Mr Nelson’s arm slung across his shoulders as he helps him out of the trap door and into the cool air. “Really I am.”

 

Frank thinks Miss Page could set Shark-bait Jonny on fire and he'd still claim he was perfectly fine and available for whatever her next whim might be.

 

And then when she turns around he wonders if the same could not be said of him. She is lovely. She’s all golden hair and eyes bluer and stormier than the waves, his coat flapping in the wind and suiting her far more than it ever suited him.

 

He lifts his hand to wave but she doesn't seem to notice and then Russ is on his feet, pulling at his rope and barking happily, shaking his rear end and bouncing on his hind legs.

 

“You know,” says Billy nonchalantly, glancing between Frank and Russ, and then at Miss Page. “They say after a while people start to look  _ just  _ like their dogs…”

 

Frank opens his mouth to retort but Billy is already walking away, tipping an imaginary hat to Shark-bait Jonny and disappearing to the lower deck. 

 

Russ barks again, growls playfully, tongue lolling out of his mouth and a string of drool dripping onto the deck.

 

“Jesus Christ,” Frank curses. “I hope that isn't true.”

 

Unfortunately he suspects it's more true than not.

 

~~~

 

Being out on the deck and able to see the sky does precisely nothing for Foggy's foul mood. And while Karen understands his hesitation and frustration with the situation, it's stopped being amusing and just become tiring. There are no other solutions to their current dilemma and even if there were, obvious problems aside, this is the best they could hope for.

 

Still she accepts that he's in a considerable amount of pain and he's nowhere near fully healed yet and frankly did not deserve any of what's happened. She also can't forget that he's in this state because he tried to save her; because he put himself between her and a gun. That in itself has earned him the right to some complaining.

 

Russ is still barking at Bones as they walk starboard and Jonny helps Foggy stand so he can peer over the side of the ship and into the water below.

 

“If I never see water again when this is over, it'll be too soon,” Foggy says, as she drapes the blanket over his shoulders. 

 

“Water is important,” Jonny says absently.

 

Foggy gives him an exasperated look and continues glaring at the ocean.

 

“Not a very nice day,” he says. “Ship's alright though. Clean.”

 

“Captain is very strict about it,” Karen tells him a second before she realises it probably wasn't a good idea to bring him up.

 

“I'm sure he is.” Somehow Foggy manages to make it sound like a personal failing on the Captain's part. 

 

She ignores him and looks away. Lewis is in the crow’s nest again but he's paying them no heed and Mr Lieberman is seemingly trying to calm the parrot who is intermittently eating pieces of dried apple out of his hands and squawking at the top of its voice.  Someone else is dry heaving on the deck portside.

 

The Captain stands near the bow with Russ and even though she wants to, she's deliberately not meeting his eyes. She's still smarting from the previous day and while she's grateful to have kept her pistol, she has mixed feelings about the whole thing and that's before she even gets to her encounter with the Captain or the words they said to one another.

_ (Is that what you think I'm doing? Leaving you in the Caribbean?) _

And no, no that isn't what she  _ thinks _ he's doing, but somewhere deep in the pit of her belly that's what it  _ feels _ like, against all logic.

 

She glances down at Bones, remembers the look in the Captain's eye when he gave her over, her hand on his shoulder, his covering hers…

 

No, this has gone too far. She's betrothed, or some form of it. And her intended is a good and decent man. The kind of man that any number of young women would look to as a prize of the highest sorts. He's sweet and capable and her reservations are truly silly in the face of all his good aspects.

 

And the Captain… well, he's the Captain and while she knows in her bones there is an equally good and decent man underneath the tales of his infamy, he is still the Captain of a pirate ship and he murders people and does terrible things. 

 

Whatever it is between them - and she tells herself it's as good as nothing - needs to stop now and they need to go back to being what they are, which is a man providing safe passage to a woman whose life he saved.

 

And if that's not the stuff of one of Mr Lieberman’s books, then she doesn't know what is.

 

She sighs. She knows she just needs to get through the next few weeks -  whatever they may bring. Even if it's an impending sense of doom. Even if something about this voyage coming to an end makes her heart ache.

 

Next to her Foggy stumbles a little on his feet and Jonny grabs his arm and steadies him.

 

“Come on,” she says. “We should get you back into bed.”

 

He shakes his head. “No, please. I've been cooped up inside for ages now. Just give me a minute out here. It's cold and the morning is ugly as sin but at least it's not a tiny cabin. And it might clear up in a bit.”

 

She regards him for a second. He really should be resting but she's also not ready to make the arduous trip back to his cabin yet.

 

“Alright, but let's get you somewhere you can sit.”

 

Jonny's about to go and search the deck when Mr Lieberman seemingly having placated Red Pepper for the moment, appears holding out a wooden barrel. “Will this do?”

 

Foggy eyes it suspiciously. “That's not a gunpowder keg, is it?”

 

“No, just a regular wine vat.”

 

“You're sure? I don't want to survive a bullet wound just to give you all the pleasure of watching me go up in a puff of smoke. Don't think I haven't seen you rolling your eyes, Karen.”

 

She huffs. “Damnit Foggy, at this point I'd blow you up myself and there'd be no need to conspire with Mr Lieberman.”

 

“Alright, alright, no need to get snippy.”

 

She looks away in exasperation and across the deck, the Captain does catch her eye and his mouth quirks. She can't help but smile in return. 

 

“Here,” Mr Lieberman puts the barrel down and Jonny helps Foggy to sit.

 

He huffs, adjusts the blanket over his shoulders.

 

“This isn't too bad,” he says grudgingly. “Now all I need is a hot coffee, bacon and sausages, and the newspaper. Oh and land and some music. And my own bed. And New York.” He glances up at Mr Lieberman. “Can you do anything about that?”

 

“The coffee part yes and maybe the music.”

 

“Oh well, thanks anyway.”

 

“You're welcome,” Mr Lieberman extends his hand. “I'm David by the way and this…” he glances at the parrot who is busy fluffing his tail feathers, “... is Red Pepper. You must be Cloudy.”

 

“Foggy,” Foggy frowns and his voice is curt and Karen has to purse her lips to hide a smile.

 

“My apologies, I did know that,” Mr Lieberman says. 

 

He frowns then, looks Foggy up and down. “That's a bad wound you have there. Does it still hurt?”

 

Foggy nods.

 

“Brave thing you did,” David says. “It must have been terrifying.”

 

“Terrifying,” Foggy agrees, his entire demeanour changing. “We had no idea what was going on and that maniac admiral is…”

 

Their voices fade into the background and Karen looks out at the water. She doesn't much want to relive those moments. James Wesley and his smug smile; Grotto saving his skin only to have it taken away minutes later; and her standing there shooting that pistol seven times while Wesley’s body bounced with each one, white shirt blooming with red flowers.

 

She takes a breath. She doesn't need to think of it now. She sees it enough at night when she closes her eyes.

 

Next to her Bones stares into the middle distance, not doing much of anything other than being alone with her thoughts, probably as horrible as her own.

 

She leans down and touches the dog’s head gently. Her skin is hot and grainy and she's due for her salve bath later, but everything about Bones breaks her heart into small pieces. She’d refused to eat before they came up. No matter how much Karen tried she shied away from the food and cowered under the bed. Karen even left her alone for a while to go and help Foggy get ready but when she returned to her room, Bones hadn't moved and the food was untouched.

 

She had hoped that by the time they reached Barbados, the dog would be doing better and she could at least leave the Captain with two healthy, well-adjusted companions or, if he would allow it, take Bones back with her and Foggy to New York. But she thinks she's been overly optimistic. And even though it's only been a day and she has no intention of giving up, she's starting to realise that the time she has left on the  _ Mea Culpa _ is not going to be enough.

 

And then she sees the Captain approaching and something inside her says that maybe it's too much as well.

 

He smiles as he draws level with her and Russ gives a few happy barks and tries to engage Bones in some romping which she ignores.

 

“Miss Page,” the Captain says. “Mr Nelson.”

 

Foggy gives him a dirty look and then nods. “Captain.”

 

There's a moment when the silence sits unbelievably heavy and awkward between them all. She can almost see the tension in the Captain's shoulders and the truth is she suspects a similar kind of anxiety rests in her own. His black eyes bore into her and she wonders when his gaze became a thing so disconcerting to her. When it became something she could feel well enough to make her skin prickle.

 

And no, no, she's not doing this anymore. She's not letting things get away from her again. There'll be no more hand holding or long looks in the candlelight. Down that road only lies disaster and she's had one too many disasters in her life. There's no reason to seek trouble out, even if right at this moment in time she's standing on his ship, wearing his coat and it's one of the most comforting sensations in the world.

 

She's about to suggest getting Foggy inside again, when Russ bounds up to him and licks him through the face, somehow forcing a smile out of him despite the Captain's presence.

 

“Who are you?” he asks and gets another lick for his trouble.

“Russ, get down,” the Captain tugs the leash a little and mutters something about poorly behaved dogs under his breath.

 

“Well hello, Russell,” Foggy says, scratching the dog’s head vigorously, “What a good boy. What a good, good boy.”

 

“Russ isn't short for Russell,” David says.

 

Foggy frowns. “What's it short for then?”

 

“Cerberus,” David pulls a face and looks at the Captain. “Who calls a dog ‘Russell’?”

 

For a second the awkward silence is back and all Karen wants to do is throw herself into the sea, leave the bunch of them to sort their problems out alone… and then Foggy belts out a laugh. It's big and hearty and comes right from his belly, and she hasn't heard him laugh like that in weeks, and it sounds so good she can't help but join in.

 

The Captain is smiling too, and even though she's seen him smile more than she ever thought she would, she's reminded how it changes his whole face, how he goes from looking like nothing but rage and cruelty manifested somehow into the shape of a man into someone almost affable, endearing. As she thought that first night in his office while he sewed her hand up, he's not the sum of his parts, but she can't decide if he's less or more.

 

When he catches her eye, she realises she's staring and she looks away but it's too late.

 

He reaches out and touches her arm gently and even though she knows she can't actually be feeling his warmth through the leather of the coat or the linen of her shirt, it feels like she is, and a little shiver meanders down her spine. She hopes no one notices, hopes that if they do, they assume it's the cold.

 

“Miss Page,” he says, sobering slightly. “When you have a moment, I'd very much like to finish our conversation from yesterday.”

 

He says it easily, as if they'd been discussing the state of the weather and the sea or something similar and just as innocuous. Nothing in his voice indicates that there's more to it than that and yet, everything in his entire body, from the way it's angled towards her, to his eyes, screams that he knows it is.

 

Apparently Foggy does too because he stops laughing abruptly and knits his brow in a way very similar to how she remembers Mr Ulrich doing when he thought she was making the wrong decision. (To be fair she only saw it twice on him. Once when she agreed to marry Matt and once when she took his engagement ring back after she'd vowed and declared it was over between the two of them.)

 

It makes her angry, even though she knows the likelihood of Foggy being informed of the full details of the situation is negligible, but on another level it reminds her of the promise she made to herself only a few moments ago.

 

“That's quite alright,” she says. “I believe we’ve said all we needed to say. 

 

“When we arrive in Barbados you'll reassess your crew, while Foggy and I head home by whatever good grace you can spare. Again, thank you for your generosity. We would be dead without you.”

 

She watches as the words settle on him, as he absorbs them and then braces herself for the change that comes as he does.

 

The smile and the sparkle in his eyes that she only moments before thought so remarkably endearing, disappears so fast it's almost like it was never there. His hand drops from her arm as well and she hates that it makes her feel slightly more lost and adrift than before.

 

“Very well,” he says slowly, muscle twitching in cheek, and she feels the first drops of rain on her skin. “We’ll not speak of it again then.”

 

His words feel both like a relief and a knife to her gut and she sucks in a deep breath and closes her eyes for a second while she waits for it to pass. 

 

But even after it does and she can focus again, his eyes are all she can see. They’re black as a demon’s and yet somehow filled with a mixture of disappointment and concern.

 

This isn’t tenable, she tells herself, this whole situation is starting to feel like she’s the one sitting on the gunpowder keg.

 

She turns away, glances at Jonny and nods.

 

“Let’s get you inside Foggy,” she says “It feels like it’s going to rain soon.”

 

 

~~~

 

It does.

 

That night Karen sits on the floor in her cabin trying desperately to get Bones to eat. The dog smells strongly of antiseptic after her salve bath and her skin doesn't feel like it's on fire for the moment. But she's still hiding under the bed, watching Karen with that dead look in her eyes which is somehow worse than wariness.

 

Outside the rain is pelting down and while it's not exactly a storm the ship is swaying in a way that makes her feel a little uneasy. It's not that she thinks they're in any real danger - she's sure they'd have been told if there was anything to worry about but she doesn't like the idea of being subject to the elements out here in the middle of the ocean. She guesses she's always had issues with relinquishing control.

 

Down the passage she can hear the strained sound of David playing the guitar and if she opens her door, she can see the warm glow coming from the Captain's cabin. Part of her really just wants to walk in there, sit down with him and drink rum. It's not even because she wants to talk - although something tells her that if she ever wants to know his story, she should do it sooner rather than later - but simply because she wants to prove to herself that the two of them are still on good terms and yesterday didn't irrevocably change anything.

 

_ (Is that what you think I'm doing? Leaving you in the Caribbean?) _

 

No. No. No.

 

_ Yes. _

 

She wonders if she could tell him about Matt, if he'd understand or if he'd tell her she's overreacting and she's found herself a fine man and should put all her worries aside. Not that it would matter; she's only here for a few more weeks and whatever she tells him is basically the same as telling the sea. It'll be lost and that's fitting and right. And it's also the exact thing that gives her pause. Because she doesn't believe it. It'll mean something and she doesn't think they should have any more meaningful things between them.

 

The crack of a guitar string snapping followed by some muffled cursing echoes through her cabin and she breathes a sigh of relief - both to be saved from her thoughts and because it means David will surely stop for the night. 

 

“At least we can get some sleep now,” she tells Bones, dropping the jerky she'd been trying to tempt her with into her bowl and wiping her hands on her pants.

 

Bones is characteristically silent as she lies down on a pile of blankets Karen fashioned into a makeshift bed in the corner.

 

“One day Bones,” she whispers. “One day.”

 

_ You'll be fine and happy and you can be a dog again. Or just be a dog, because you probably never had that privilege either. _

 

She pulls off her boots and starts unbuttoning her shirt when she hears a horrible squeak followed by the heavy handed out of tune strumming of a D chord, which sounds more akin to alley cats mating in the height of summer than actual music.

 

“Jesus Christ,” she swears. Apparently she underestimated Mr Lieberman’s determination to drive them all over the edge of sanity.

 

She glances at the small clock on her bedside table. It's past midnight and she can't for the life of her imagine that she's the only one so disturbed by the noise. It's true that Foggy had some kind of heavy tincture for the pain before bed (and she's fairly certain she saw him sneaking an extra two spoons beyond Curtis’ prescribed dosage), so it makes sense that he's asleep, and Curtis himself often stays up quite late either in the infirmary or in the mess hall talking to some of the crew who may or may not be having a hard time. But she can’t understand why Mr Russo hasn't said anything. She's savvy enough to know he doesn't like Mr Lieberman very much and he strikes her as the kind of man who'd be overly concerned with getting enough beauty sleep. 

 

She waits a few minutes, hand lingering on her buttons, suddenly tired and desperate to get into bed, but the noise doesn't stop. If anything it actually gets worse; the out of tune strumming louder and the hollow  _ tok tok tok _ of obstructed strings echoes into her room.

 

She does up her shirt, walks out into the empty corridor and goes to Mr Lieberman’s door, raps smartly against the wood and waits. Nothing changes though. The guitar still sounds like someone is murdering a cat and if anything it gets louder.

 

She knocks again. “Mr Lieberman? Mr Lieberman please, it's very late.”

 

The ship sways a little and she hears water sloshing and spraying outside, the sound of rain hitting the deck. And then the terrible twang of the guitar again.

 

“Mr Lieberman, please. Mr Lieberman. Mr Lieberman. David!”

 

She bangs on the door again, harder this time, and to her surprise it suddenly gives under her hand and swings open on its hinges, hitting the wall and bouncing back almost immediately.

 

David is sitting at a very cluttered desk, hunched over his guitar and holding it like it’s treasure, his hair hanging long and falling in his face.

 

But none of that, nor the noise he's making registers much as she stares at the enormous piece of parchment on the wall behind his desk where one might expect to see a painting or a map or, in Foggy's case, a well endowed bust of a mermaid. The lamplight isn't good: it's dull and muted and glowing gold in a way that creates dark shadows and deep highlights and obscures finer details, but it can't hide the endless rows of inked symbols on the parchment, some circled with hastily scrawled notes next to them, others marked with different colours or bright ribbons and pins. To the left and slightly distanced from most of the writing she sees the outline of what looks like a photograph and even though she can't make out what it is of, there's something familiar about it.

 

And then David is off his chair and across the room, guitar crashing to the floor as he holds the door firmly and pokes his head out into the corridor, eyes wide and slightly panicked. Slightly guilty too.

 

“Can I… can I help you, Miss Page?”

 

His voice trembles and he glances furtively behind him.

 

She purses her lips, knits her brow.

 

“Are you alright?” she asks mildly.

 

He frowns, mirrors her movements as she tries unsuccessfully to look over his shoulder.

 

“Yes I'm fine,” he swallows hard. “Are you?”

 

Her mouth quirks and she narrows her eyes, lets the silence stretch for a few long moments, but David doesn't budge and, if anything, she sees something akin to that cunning gleam in his eyes she noticed yesterday in the mess hall.

 

“Miss Page?”

 

She doesn't let herself be rushed. She cocks her head, and he shifts uncomfortably, but doesn't give her the satisfaction of looking away.

 

“I was just going to ask you to put the guitar away for the night.”

 

She stands on her tiptoes, pretends to be looking for the it but again he moves with her. He's so tall anyway, it wouldn't make a difference. She's not going to see past him unless he wants her to and it's fairly obvious that's the last thing he wants.

 

“I'm sorry,” he says. “Was the sound disturbing you?”

 

“It echoes … and I'm a light sleeper… and Foggy needs his rest too.”

 

“I'm sorry,” he says again. “Sometimes when I'm practicing I lose track of the time. It won't happen again.”

 

She nods, doesn't move and watches him watching her.

 

“If that's all, Miss Page, you have a good night.”

 

He dips his head and retreats back into his room, door closing with a firm thud and she's not at all surprised to hear a pronounced click as he locks the door.

 

She stands there a minute longer, listening to his footsteps, the sound of the guitar being set back upright and then the squeaking of a chair as he sits down.

 

It's not like she doesn't know there's something extremely odd about David. She figured that out from the first time she saw him holding out a sandwich to her in the infirmary. There's something about him that tries too hard to fit in. Something about the parrot and the oversized hats, the garb that just seems almost too cliched. And when she adds that to the fact that all he really seems to do is cook occasionally and play guitar badly - and lives in a cabin reserved for elite crew members and apparently lost souls saved from the sea - it's even more suspicious. Suspicious like the stories about his family and he’s pointed questions about her and Foggy. Suspicious like the code-breaking book she found in the Captain’s office.

 

He's looking for something, this part is obvious. She's just not sure what or how and, even though it's none of her business, she can't help but feel a small twinge of excitement in her belly at the idea of trying to solve both that little mystery and the bigger one behind it. Mr Ulrich always said she had a way of uncovering the truth.

 

_ Trust your instincts Karen,  _ he told her once, _ if you think something's wrong, it probably is.  _

 

And it was. It was and that's why she's here on this ship in the middle of nowhere with no desire to rush home to the man who once captured her heart and put his ruby ring on her finger.

 

_ (You don't have to do this Karen. You don't understand. Let me explain) _

 

Matt. Matt and his tears and his mouth full of regrets and promises. Matt and his tears and not an apology in sight.

 

She pinches the bridge of her nose. That's another thing to push back into the recesses of her mind. Another challenge to deal with when the time comes.

 

But as she’s about to go back to her room and leave all thoughts of David and Matt and their respective mysteries behind, she hears the trap door to the deck opening and an icy gust of wind soars down the the corridor, flying under her shirt, lifting her hair and making her skin prickle. She hugs herself, listens to the sound of heavy footsteps coming closer and closer, wonders for a second if it's Lewis and her hand instinctively goes to her little silver pistol at her hip.

 

But then Mr Russo comes around the corner. He's drenched, long hair plastered to his head and water running like rivers down his coat and dripping all over the floor, leaving puddles behind him. His boots are wet too, squelching with every step he takes and he's shaking his arms and flicking raindrops everywhere in a way she thinks the Captain really would not appreciate. 

 

He stops midstride when he sees her, nostrils flaring and eyes going wide, and for a split second she thinks she sees a hint of worry in his eyes. But then he swallows hard; briefly he looks like he's trying to find the right expression for his face before settling on what she imagines is an attempt at a smirk. 

 

“Miss Page,” he says, ducking his head and glancing at her bare feet. “I didn't expect to see you…  _ there _ .”

 

_ No, you didn't, _ she thinks.  _ And now you're trying to put me off balance by implying some kind of indiscretion between me and Mr Lieberman. _

 

She decides not to give him the satisfaction of letting that ruffle her.

 

“Bad night to be out on the deck,” she says.

 

_ Such a bad night and really Mr Russo, this isn’t you. It’s not at all. The Captain might have some noble idea that he wouldn’t ask the men to do anything he wouldn’t do, but I don’t think for one second that same honour exists in you. _

 

He shrugs. “Needs must. Work doesn’t stop just because the elements go a little strange on us.”

 

“Thought we were anchored for tonight,” she says. “Are we moving again?”

 

He shakes his head and water droplets fly into one of the oil lamps. There's a hissing sound but the flame continues to burn.

 

He really is drenched.

 

“No, we’ll only move tonight if this gets worse and becomes an actual storm, otherwise we'll start again at first light tomorrow. Rain or shine. It’s just not a good night to be steering the ship into unknown waters,” He hesitates, seems to be taking stock of the situation again. “Now if you'll excuse me, I need to get out of these wet clothes.”

 

He gives her a easy smile, hint of his fangs scraping his bottom lip.

 

“Oh of course, Mr Russo, you'll catch your death if you stay like that for too long.”

 

His eyes twinkle like she’s just said something very amusing, and then he glances pointedly at David’s door and her bare feet, gives her a short, sharp nod and leaves her standing there watching the lamp light flicker in the puddles he’s left in his wake.


	10. When the band begins to play

The next morning after trying unsuccessfully to get Bones to eat something, Karen leaves her with Shark-bait Jonny and goes to Curtis for him to look at her hand.

 

He seems a little distracted when she arrives in the infirmary but, as always, his smile is kind and he takes his time looking over the Captain's stitches, turning her hand this way and that, making sure she can bend all her fingers and prodding at the skin on either side of the wound.

 

“I should give you an earful for not coming sooner,” he says as he rubs some alcohol across the stitches. “But Frank has done a good job. It's clean and neat. You shouldn't even have much of a scar.”

 

“I guess that's good news,” she says, even though she doesn't find the thought of scars on her skin especially bothersome.

 

“Scars aren't the worst thing in the world.” He taps on his wooden leg and gives her a wry smile.

 

“No, they certainly are not.”

 

“Maybe on the inside though… those are different.”

 

She cocks her head.

 

“You have a lot of scars inside?” she asks him gently.

 

“More than some, less than others.”

 

She doesn't need to ask to know he's talking about the Captain. Doesn't need to even wonder. It's the woman and the picture, it's the gatling gun and the way he ran his blade across Grotto's throat like it was nothing.

 

It's the terrible darkness in his eyes that somehow seems worse now that she's seen the light in them too.

 

But there's something else too and not for the first time it occurs to her that Curtis is a man worth knowing on this ship. He's decent and honest. Straightforward. And above all, he just wants to help, whether that's by healing minds or bodies or both. She wonders if there's someone waiting for him somewhere. If he, like Mr Lieberman, has a family who is missing him and wants him home.

 

So she asks him. Simple. Direct.

 

It doesn't upset him. Not visibly anyway. Instead he gets an almost wistful look on his face, and shakes his head.

 

“No,” he says. “No, there ain't no one waiting for me. Everything I have is here on this ship.”

 

“Seems to me like you wish that wasn't the case.”

 

“Grass is always greener, I suppose.”

 

He glances at her and his eyes are friendly but there's something in them that seems to be asking her not to pursue this.

 

So she nods. She'll respect that even if she knows there's a lot left unsaid. 

 

He runs a thumb over the stitches again, frowns, gets up and goes to one of his cupboards and pulls out some gauze and a fresh bandage. He soaks the gauze in some pale liquid that that smells like licorice, presses it down on her palm and then wraps the wound with the clean bandages.

 

“Should be able to take those stitches out in a few days. There's no infection as long as you keep it clean,” he says. “You could even ask Frank if you'd prefer not to come here. He’d be able to do it. It ain't hard and he knows what he is doing … most of the time.”

 

There's a second the idea sounds intriguing. She imagines sitting in the Captain's quarters again, him holding her hand and her staring at the top of his head. His voice is a soft rumble and her own is stuck in her throat. He's gentle and his hand lingers on hers…

 

She shakes her head. “I wouldn't want to bother him.”

 

_ And I don't want him to bother me half as much as he does. _

 

Curtis looks at her sceptically for a long moment and then shrugs. “Alright, if that's how it is then.”

 

She's about to answer that it's not how anything is, and it's not unusual to seek medical treatment from the actual doctor on the ship, but before she can the door to the infirmary swings open and Mr Russo strides purposefully into the room. His eyes are worried and his lips pursed. There's a hook in his brow and a muscle jumping in his jaw.

 

It's not a good look on him; it doesn't suit him at all. In fact it looks like the kind of expression he's never truly used before and almost as if his face doesn't know how it needs to move to accommodate it.

 

He pauses briefly when he sees her and she wonders if he's thinking about their strange encounter from the previous night, but then his attention diverts immediately to Curtis.

 

“Curt, you've got to come now,” he says, voice brittle. “Right now.”

 

Curtis pulls a face. “You can't just walk in here while I'm with someone… least you can do is knock.”

 

“I'm sorry,” Billy doesn't look sorry in the slightest. “But you need to come now.”

 

“Alright, alright, what is it?” Curt ties off her bandage. “What's happened?”

 

“It's Shady Cooper. He fell over last night. Slipped on the deck and hit his head. Knuckles roused him and got him into his bed, but now he won't wake up.”

 

Curt folds his arms and sighs, eyes Billy with a considerable amount of annoyance. “You sure he's not just hungover and trying to get out of latrine duty? He was back in the rum last night... the bad stuff.”

 

Billy gives him a look like the qualification wasn't necessary. “I'm not saying it's not that he's in his cups - I'd be surprised if he wasn't, but he won't get up no matter what we do. There's something wrong.”

 

Curt rolls his eyes. “Is he breathing? Has anyone checked?”

 

Billy nods rapidly and briefly the worry on his face evaporates before the hook in his brow is backed, more pronounced than ever.

 

“Then he's probably fine. I'll come and see him as soon as I've finished here with Miss Page and after I've gone to change Mr Nelson's dressings,” Curtis takes her hand again, turns it over and tugs on the bandage to make sure it's secure.

 

Billy shakes his head, runs a hand through his hair. “Come on, that can wait. You need to come now.”

 

“Since when have you ever been so worried about Shady Cooper?”

 

“Since he's been in and out of here for the last three days running for various qualms…”

 

“Is ‘qualms’ the new way we're describing stupidity and drunkenness? Because that's what I've been treating him for.”

 

Billy looks around the room and takes a breath.

 

“These are my men, Curt…” he swallows hard. “Please…”

 

Curt is silent for a moment and then he sighs and nods. “Alright, alright. Miss Page - Karen - would you please tell Foggy I'll be a bit late today, as soon as I've sorted this mess out.”

 

“I'm sure Miss Page is capable of seeing to Mr Nelson today, if it’s so important.” Billy says.

 

“No, it's my...” Curtis starts but Karen cuts him off.

 

“No, it's fine,” she says, standing up. “I've seen you change his dressings, I can do it. Save you some bother as well.”

 

“Karen, I just don't think…”

 

“It's perfectly fine,” she says again. “It'll make me feel useful, also give me some practice for when we leave the ship and you won't be around. It's a long way to New York from Barbados.”

 

Curtis frowns, chews up on his bottom lip. 

 

“Oh for the good Lord’s sake,” Billy says picking up a stack of bandages and bottles off of Curtis’ counters and shoving them into Karen's  arms. “She said she can do it, so let her do it. Miss Page is not a fool.”

 

“Of course she isn't, but it's my job…”

 

“So is Shady Cooper, whether we want him to be or not.”

 

“Really,” Karen says. “I can do it. It's no bother. It'll lighten your load too.”

 

“Alright,” Curtis sounds convinced if reluctant. “The clear liquid in the blue bottle is the rubbing alcohol for keeping the wound clean. The red is the painkiller he likes so much and the brown is the tincture to stop infection. Use the swabs for…”

 

“... for the rubbing alcohol and keep the bandages dry,” she finishes. “Two spoons of the tincture and one of the red and don't leave that in his room… I know.”

 

Curtis gives her a tired smile. “Thank you.”

 

“Go,” she says. “Shady Cooper needs you.”

 

He nods, grabs a small leather case from behind his desk and Billy ushers him out of the door without a backwards glance, leaves her standing there clutching Foggy’s bandages and medicine.

 

She stands there staring at the door for a few seconds. She can't remember a time she's ever seen Billy flustered, not from their first encounter when he grabbed her and wouldn't let her try to save Grotto, to the smooth way he handled the questioning about the weapons to last night when he was sopping wet for no good reason. It seems wrong in some way, like trying to fit a square peg into a round hole or force a puzzle piece that just won't fit.

 

She shakes her head, clutches the bandages to her and heads down the hall to Foggy's room.

 

~~~

 

“No, no, it's like this,” she hears Foggy say as she's about to knock on his door. “Three fingers, second fret and then you strum. Don't touch the top string.”

 

There's a horrible twanging sound followed by an exasperated sigh.

 

“Are you sure that thing is tuned?” Foggy says.

 

“Yes,” David's voice is tight and annoyed. “I did it myself.”

 

“Forgive me if I don't take that as an endorsement. Give it here.”

 

She hears the guitar being passed over and another excruciating sound of strumming.

 

“See?” says David.

 

“How do you think you tune a guitar?”

 

“You tighten the strings as tight as you can.”

 

There's a moment's silence and then Foggy speaks. “Tell me David, do you break a lot of strings?”

 

“You know, actually I do.”

 

Karen suppresses a smile and raps sharply on the door, before pushing it open to see Foggy sitting up in bed bent over David's guitar.

David is sitting on a small stool, elbows resting on his knees watching intently as Foggy adjusts the pegs and plucks at the strings.

 

They both look up at her as she comes inside and a slightly guilty expression graces David’s face as he stands to offer her the stool.

 

“Good morning Miss Page - Karen,” he says and she smiles at him, puts her bottles and bandages down on Foggy's side table. “I was just asking Hazy here…”

 

“Foggy,” Foggy says distractedly as he pulls at a string.

 

“Sorry yes, I was just asking him about helping me with guitar…” he frowns. “Sorry again about last night Miss Page.”

 

_ You're more sorry I saw what I saw _ , she thinks.

 

“Maybe when I can play it properly, you won't have cause to be disturbed,” he continues.

 

She lets his words hang in the air for a moment so that everyone can hear exactly how far-fetched he sounds.

 

“Ah well, I can dream,” David says goodnaturedly.

 

She can't help but smile and when she catches Foggy's eye, he's biting down hard on his bottom lip.

 

“Didn't know you knew much about guitar,” she says to Foggy.

 

“I'm a man of many hidden talents,” he replies. “You don't know the half of it.”

 

She grins. “I believe it.”

 

“Also David brought me this.”

 

He puts the guitar down and reaches down next to the bed to pick up a dusty but undamaged fiddle and bow. He smiles widely, runs the bow across the strings and produces the most pleasant musical sound she’s heard since setting foot on the  _ Mea Culpa _ .

 

“Maybe when I've practiced a bit, we'll play together,” David says and Foggy pulls a face even as he's nodding.

 

“That's a really good idea,” Karen says and Foggy gives her a filthy look.

 

“What's all that?” he asks, changing the subject and indicating the bandages and medicines on the table.

 

“Curtis got called away. Shady Cooper hit his head or something, so I'm doing your bandages today.”

 

“You sure that's the truth?” Foggy quips. “Or you just scheming to catch a glimpse of this?” He indicates vaguely at his middle.

 

She snorts. “You see all my secrets, Mr Fogg.”

 

“Mhmm,” says Foggy thoughtfully. “Probably took out Shady Cooper too. A likely excuse.”

 

“Guilty,” she says holding up her hands. “Now Mr Lieberman, if you would give us some privacy…”

 

“Yes, yes,” David picks up his guitar. “I've got to go and see to Red Pepper anyway.” 

 

He ducks his head and sees himself out, door clicking behind him.

 

“So I see you're feeling better,” she says, sitting on Foggy's bed. 

 

He nods vigorously. “I am. Should be right as rain soon. Probably good by the time we can leave this godforsaken ship behind.”

 

She doesn't say anything to that, but gently peels the covers back and lifts the edge of his sleep shirt. The bandage is big and stretched across his side but it still can't hide the sheer volume of mottled flesh. He's bruised so badly, every move must be agony for him and she feels bad for becoming annoyed with his complaining. He did, after all, think he was saving her life. He did do it for her.

 

“Do you like what you see?” he asks seriously and she nods solemnly.

 

“I do.”

 

“Alright, but let's keep things appropriate. That means no peeking,” he says sternly and she snorts.

 

“I'll try my best.”

 

“Evelyn will get jealous.” 

 

“Evelyn?”

 

He points to the mermaid bust on the wall. “She's very possessive.”

 

Karen laughs. “I'll be sure not to upset her.”

 

She grabs the edges of the bandage, unties it and gingerly tugs it away from the wound. She might know what needs to be done and she might be pretty sure she can do it but her hands are not as practiced and confident as Curtis’ or the Captain's, and she's painfully aware that any moment might see her out of her depth. Still, she squares her shoulders and takes a deep breath and tells herself this isn't difficult and she'll be fine. Most of the trickier aspects of the process have already been done and all she needs to do is make sure she doesn't undo all the hard work Curtis has been putting into keeping Foggy alive.

 

“David is nice,” Foggy says as she works. “He even says the Captain isn't so bad.”

 

She huffs, rolls her eyes.

 

“What?”

 

“It's just I've been telling you that since you woke up but you refuse to believe me…”

 

“It's different.”

 

“Why? Because David is a man?”

 

“Well, yes…”

 

She suddenly has an overwhelming desire to poke his wound, Curtis’ hard work be damned.

 

“... But not like that, Karen.”

 

“Like what then?”

 

“Well, It's not that I can't believe it when you say that the Captain is decent and respectful and wouldn't hurt us. He hasn't so far and unless he has some big plan to ransom us that he's not telling anyone about, I believe he will honour his word… it's just that…” he pauses, cheeks reddening a little. “... It's just that I'm not a fool and I've seen how he looks at you and it could be nothing because the Lord knows that he has a stare that could probably see through iron walls if he wanted to, but he does look at you like… well like you're the only woman in a hundred mile radius and…” he trails off like he doesn't quite know what to say any more.

 

Her face burns as she pulls his bandage free and she forces herself to concentrate on her task and not snap at him. 

 

The wound is still puckered and an angry red, but it's not swollen and Curtis’ stitches are holding well. She grabs the rubbing alcohol, pulls the cork out of the bottle and pours some into a swab.

 

“Foggy,” she says evenly as she pushes the swab down and he hisses. “How can you say you believe he's decent and then in the same breath question his intentions towards me? A good and decent man would not force himself on a woman under his care.”

 

Foggy bites his lip. “No, I'm not saying that.”

 

“Then, what are you saying?”

 

“He doesn't look at you like that, like a man who…” his face is the same colour as Red Pepper's feathers. “...  _ has _ intentions. He looks at you like you're… like you're ... something he's been looking for… a way to save him from himself almost… and you…” he stops abruptly, mouth snapping shut.

 

“And I?”

 

“Forget it. It doesn't matter. We won't be here for long and soon this will all be over.”

 

She eyes him coolly as she wipes at his wound again.

 

“Go on, say it. You obviously feel strongly about this.”

 

“No, it's not important,” he says.

 

“I'd say it's very important,” she smooths a clean bandage over the gunshot, runs her hand over it.

 

He sighs and lies back down on his pillows. “It's just I've seen the way you look at him too.”

 

“Foggy!”

 

She wants to sound exasperated and annoyed but her voice comes out soft and low and there's a tremble in it she's sure he won't have missed.

 

“It's true. I'm sorry, but it is. It's not even that you're so calm about all this and seem to think he's some misunderstood noble soul…”

 

“You just said you thought he was decent!” she pulls his nightshirt down and pours his medicine into a small glass on his side table and holds it out to him.

 

“Yes,” he takes the glass and swallows the contents, makes a face like it's terribly bitter and he hasn't been sneaking extra doses of it since he was well enough to move by himself. “...and I'm not contradicting myself on that, but Karen, you believed him almost immediately. You barely even questioned…”

 

And suddenly the room feels too small but then again, so does the whole world and it has felt that way for a long time, and she feels the frustration and anger bubbling in her chest.

 

“I do question,” she snaps. “I do. I've been questioning everything for so long now I don't know how to do anything else.”

 

He stops then, mouth hanging open as the sound of the waves from outside filters through the window. For a long time neither of them says anything but he looks at her like she's just given him one of the biggest revelations of his life.

 

Finally, he pushes himself back up on the bed so that he’s half sitting. “We're not talking about the Captain anymore, are we?”

 

She looks away, chokes back the tears welling in the back of her throat, pinches the bridge of her nose. 

 

It's not fair. Foggy was supposed to be her confidant. He was supposed to be the person she could trust not to hurt and not to judge and even though she knows it's silly and her reaction is completely overblown it feel like he's letting her down and that she's more alone than she thought.

 

“Karen, I'm sorry--”

 

“No,” she interrupts. “No we're not talking about the Captain.”

 

It’s not entirely a lie. Not entirely.

 

He knits his brow, cocks his head. “I'm sorry,” he says again. “I didn't mean to. I know something happened with Matt - I know that much - and you don't need to tell me what it is, but I know there's no way that you went from looking at him like like that to leaving for years to travel, no matter how much you enjoyed the Urichs’ company.”

 

Her stomach does a nasty twist and she pushes the image of Matt's handsome tear-stained face out of her mind. 

 

_ (“I felt… I felt alive, Karen. You have to understand that…” _

 

_ “And now? How do you feel now?”) _

 

_ No. _

 

_ Not here. Not now. _

 

She lifts her head. Foggy is staring intently at her, and even though she knows he is hoping she'll tell him everything - even if he doesn't expect it - the concern on his face is enough to make most of the anger she felt for him evaporate. 

 

He's her friend. Through this whole thing, he's been her only true friend and nothing will change that, even if all she wants to do is get out of this room now and leave him to his fiddle and his mermaid bust.

 

She meets his eyes, looks at him long and hard and then she swallows and nods. “Yes, something did happen and yes, it's made me question things about Matt, but for you to imply that I'm flighty or skittish and happy to just give away my affections for some flight of fancy is unfair … no matter what it is that you think you saw, or see.”

 

“No,” he says holding up his hands. “That's not what I meant. It's not what I meant at all.”

 

“That's what it sounded like.” 

 

He frowns and she knows he's trying to think of a way to save this conversation and fix all this, but she knows there's not. It'll just have lie there untended until it fades away. And it's comfort that she knows it will fade. It's Foggy, after all, and they can't hurt one another for long.

 

But they can hurt for now.

 

They're both silent for a moment longer and then she shakes her head, collects his old bandages and the used swabs, and stands.

 

“I'm going to take these to Curtis,” she says and he nods slowly. “You should get some rest.”

 

She goes to the door, pushes against the pitted wood and feels a gust of cool ocean air streaming through the corridor. She's just about to step into it when Foggy calls her back.

 

She stops, shoulders slumping, and turns to him. She doesn't want to stay. She doesn't want to listen to any more of this but she doesn't want to make it worse, even if he does.

 

What he says next doesn't feel like it carries any judgement though, even though she knows it must. It  _ has _ to. 

 

And yet… And yet his voice is soft and so is his face and she can't see anything in it but love and concern.

 

“Karen, when I say I've seen the way you look at him, I don't mean I'm worried because I've seen you look at Matt like that… what I mean is I'm worried because I've never seen you look at  _ anyone _ like that.”

 

~~~

 

Frank doesn't sleep well and when he wakes up his head feels thick and his senses dulled. It's not an unusual feeling. He's used to not getting much sleep; more often than not he only manages a few broken hours. What is different is that tonight it wasn't the dreams that woke him, but rather the lack of them.

 

There was no blood and no screaming and worse, there was none of their laughter either, none of the happy smiles. 

 

They were just gone, like they were never there to start with and somehow that was worse than being tortured by their faces and their laughs and screams.

 

It's still dark when he gets up and walks barefoot into his office, pulls open his draw and feels around for the battered sepia photograph. He's not sure why he's felt the need to put it away lately but something tells him it's safer away from prying eyes and air from the salt water outside.

 

He gropes around in the draw, fingers closing around some of David's scrolls, and then some stocks and bonds he plans on cashing in when they get to Barbados. Briefly his fingers touch something cold and hard. His closes his hand over it and pulls it out of the draw.

 

It's a gold necklace, a simple delicate chain and a oval locket on the end decorated with bright sapphires. Even in the dark it shines and shimmers, catching the moonlight streaming in through the window.

 

He looks at it for a few seconds as it dangles and sparkles in his hand. She’d loved it. He guesses that's a silver lining - it was the last thing he ever gave to her.

 

He sighs, puts it back in the draw and resumes his search for the photograph, hand eventually closing around the slippery paper and pulling it out from under some parchment.

 

He lights a candle on his desk and as he's about to turn he photograph over, when he realises he doesn't really want to look at it. To look is to see all those things he's forgetting, it's to lose their smiles and their voices. 

 

It's to realise he's alone in more ways than he thought.

 

He shakes his head, blows out the flame and returns the photograph to his draw.

 

Maybe he's just not strong enough. 

 

Maybe he never was.

 

~~~

 

Later, he skips breakfast and goes up to the deck with Russ. Gunner is at the wheel, even though he's sure Billy said he was going to take it for the day and Shark-bait Jonny is kneeling portside, holding his good hand out to Bones, and, for all the world, she doesn't seem to be shying away from him. In fact, Frank's fairly sure, he sees a nervous tail wag as she sniffs something in Jonny's hand.

 

The wind is blowing and the sunlight is weak again and he's fairly sure that the rain from last night was just a little taste of what's to come. 

 

There's a storm brewing - he can feel it in his bones. And it's not like they've never weathered storms before. They've been on the ocean long enough to have seen a few and survived them all, but this feels different. There's a quality to it he doesn't like and he wonders if it's because of their extra guests and their relative lack of familiarity with the whims of the sea. Then again, Miss Page has travelled a lot and she seems pretty unflappable with a certain hard pragmatism that comes to the fore when the challenges rise up.

 

He sighs. Maybe he's just more worried about David.

 

And maybe he shouldn't be thinking about Miss Page at all.

 

Instinctively, he glances up at the crow's nest. Lewis is still there, telescope out as he stares ahead across the ocean.

 

The hard fact of the matter is Lewis is honestly not a bad lookout. He has sharp eyes and he picked up how to use the telescopes faster than any of the other men. Also assigning him to something that doesn't in fact require much interaction with others and keeps him off the deck for long stretches of time, gives Frank a lot of peace of mind… And, as he told Miss Page, you can't really put a price on that.

 

Although she'd probably tell him that Lewis would do better if he was working with others, learning from them, and not isolated with only Curtis for company occasionally.

 

He shakes his head. Miss Page is  _ still _ a problem. She's probably also right.

 

Russ wags his tail suddenly and lets out a high-pitched bark and takes a few steps towards Bones and Shark-bait, looks back at Frank with big liquid eyes and his tongue lolling out of his mouth.

 

“You only just saw her now?” Frank asks and Russ goes low with his backside in the air like he wants to play. “You really do have rocks in your head.”

 

He barks again, happily this time which makes it sound like he agrees with the assessment.

 

“Alright,” Frank says. “Let’s go say hello.”

 

Russ bounces a little on his toes and then charges across the deck at top speed to lick Jonny across his mouth and nose. Jonny chuckles and Russ starts snuffling at Bones attempting to engage her in some romping which she doesn't completely ignore.

 

“Sir,” Shark-bait says as Frank approaches, “Captain.”

 

He makes to salute with his hook but Frank waves him off.

 

“I'm sure Billy had you on engine duty,” Frank says, folding his arms. “We'd all like to play with dogs all day.”

 

Shark-bait’s face turns a very fetching shade of red. “Karen -- Miss Page needed someone to look after Bones while she went to see Curtis about her hand.”

 

“And you just selflessly volunteered.”

 

Shark-bait's face gets impossibly redder.

 

“Miss Page said…”

 

“Well, at least she is finally having that seen to.” Frank purses his lips, frowns. 

 

The fact is he's not worried about Shark-bait missing out on work; he's dedicated and efficient and does everything he's asked, and if he's not doing it now, it will be done later. Besides Frank is pretty sure he can't reason his way out of why he'd expect Shark-bait to stop helping Miss Page when she needed it.

 

He also suspects Miss Page would give him an earful, although judging how she's been since their last conversation, he wonders if he's not overestimating her investment in him or the men on his ship.

 

And then as if he'd conjured her up just by thinking about her, she appears from the lower deck, his coat flapping in the wind, boots stomping heavily on the rungs of the ladder.

 

She's sad - he can see that immediately. It's not that she's been crying, her eyes aren't red but her brow is creased and her eyes don't have any of their usual sparkle. 

 

When she sees him she seems surprised and tries to adjust her features into something resembling a smile but she fails.

 

“You alright, Miss Page?” he asks.

 

She wipes her cheeks even though he can't see any tears on them and nods her head.

 

“I'm well, thank you.”

 

He has half a mind to tell her not to lie to him, half a mind to tell her that he thought they at least would honour that obligation to each other, but there's something about the haunted look on her face that gives him pause.

 

He won't get an answer out of her. She'll hedge and deflect and push whatever it is that's worrying her so far away that he'll never get to it. He's seen the way she does this with that fiancee of hers and he knows he doesn't have the time to earn that kind of trust again, so he holds his tongue.

 

Russ has no such qualms and bounds up to her, butting her legs with his head until she gives in and strokes him before turning her attention to Shark-bait Jonny.

 

“Thanks Jonny,” she says, looking at Bones. “How has she been?”

 

He gives her a radiant grin and runs his huge hand over Bones’ scabby head, ruffles her ears gently. She turns to look at him as he does and there's a second that Frank swears her eyes don't look dead anymore.

 

“No trouble at all,” Jonny says. “She's a good girl.”

 

Miss Page’s mouth pulls into a sad, but genuine smile. “Yes, yes she is.”

 

“I see you got your hand seen to,” Frank says and she looks dismissively at the bandage like she's forgotten it.

 

“Oh yes, Curtis says it's healing well.”

 

“And Mr Nelson? Is he well this morning?”

 

Her frown reappears and she bites her lip.

 

“Yes,” she says. “Yes, he's stronger every day.” she gives a somewhat forced smile. “He was helping Mr Lieberman with his guitar earlier.”

 

“Oh Good Lord,” Frank says, rolling his eyes and when he looks at her he can see a slight thawing of her demeanour. 

 

“I told you, you should have thrown it overboard, Captain. Heaven knows what we’re in for now, especially as Mr Lieberman bribed Foggy with a fiddle.”

 

Her smile has turned almost genuine and a little mischievous too and he finds it's infectious. 

 

“Yes ma'am, yes you did.”

 

She chuckles. It’s a little hollow and she's trying too hard to cover up her melancholic disposition but it sounds good and sweet and he can't help but snort too.

 

“Should have listened.”

 

Yes, yes, he should have, but he's listening now.

 

“I will,” he says. “I'll also remind David that some of us…” he glances at Jonny, “...have work to do and can't spend the day having fun.”

 

“I'm sure Mr Lieberman will still have plenty of time for baking bread and looking after Red Pepper.”

 

It's a pointed comment, made only sharper by the way Miss Page narrows her eyes and cocks her head, and suddenly he has the most unsettling feeling that David's secret work is becoming less and less secret all the time.

 

He tries to ignore the obvious bait, searches for something to say that will deflect the question in her eyes, and then as if by some kind of magic, Bones does it for him.

 

She takes a step towards Jonny, noses timidly at his pocket, makes a small snuffling sound. He pulls out a small piece of jerky and holds it out to her. She doesn't take it immediately but looks up at him and then to Miss Page.

 

There's a beat and then Miss Page's voice, barely more than a whisper. “Go on. Go on, girl.”

 

Bones turns back to Jonny and pulls the jerky out of his fingers delicately and then chews it with dainty little bites, tail wagging uncertainly as he strokes her scabby head.

 

“Good girl,” he says softly. “Good girl.”

 

She looks between the three of them again, even half acknowledges Russ who suddenly seems to have a vested interest in the contents of Jonny's pockets, and then goes to rest against Miss Page's legs, head against her knee.

 

For a moment there's absolute silence, even the gulls are silent and the sea’s choppiness has turned calm. When Miss Page looks at him and the sparkle in her eyes is back and he thinks for the first time since he's known her he's seeing pure, unadulterated joy on her face. It floors him and he feels like he can't move, his muscles stiff and limbs like lead, breath stuck in the back of his throat and lungs constricting.

 

And then she seems to catch herself and her features rearrange themselves into something else, something harder and firmer. Something more controlled. 

 

She turns away from him, looks at Jonny who is beaming from ear to ear.

 

“There's hope for her yet,” he says. “Always knew there was.”

 

It's true, there is. Frank just hopes that's true for the rest of them as well.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	11. By any other name

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing much to say about this. I love this fic. Let me know if you do too.

Foggy is subdued the next day when she goes to see him, although his eyes do brighten a little when he sees Bones looking better.

 

“At least she is on the mend,” he says as Karen dabs at his wound with swabs soaked in alcohol. “Makes one of us.”

 

He doesn't seem to be too upset by their last conversation, even if she is still smarting under the blow of his words and deliberately steering the conversation away from their circumstances and the Captain and all the complex feelings associated with both of those things. 

 

If Foggy notices, he doesn't say anything. He is uneasy though, complaining a little that the gunshot is hurting, and drinking more of Curtis’ tincture than he should, grimacing after each swallow and moaning that the new medicine is so bitter, he thinks it's been designed specifically to avoid him taking more than he should.

 

“I'm sure Curtis knows best,” she says and he frowns.

 

“Either the wound tortures me or the cure does,” he says. “What a wonderful choice.”

 

“Scylla and Charybdis,” she says and he nods grimly.

 

“At least I have Evelyn,” he jerks his head towards the wall. “Fine woman, she is.”

 

“Well, that is a kindness,” she can’t help the smile tugging at the corner of her lips as she does one last pass over his gunshot.

 

He smiles too and it doesn't quite go far enough to heal their rift.

 

And speaking of healing, his wound doesn't look much different than it did the day before. It's still red and bruised, maybe a little swollen, but not bleeding. 

 

As she applies the bandage, she asks if he wants to come up to the deck again but he shakes his head.

 

“No, I'm going to rest. When I sleep I forget the pain.”

 

She frowns a little at that. Foggy has never been one to suffer in silence, and just yesterday he seemed to be in better spirits and she half expected to be kept up all night with him and Mr Lieberman playing old, sad ballads or bawdy sailors tunes.

 

“Should I send for Curtis?”

 

“No, I'll be fine. I'm just tired.”

 

She looks at him sceptically but when he pulls the covers up to his chin and turns his back to her, she leaves him to it, promising she'll be back to check on him later.

 

She wanders the ship a little aimlessly for most of the morning, Bones in tow behind her. It's quiet and no one is really about. Mr Lieberman is not answering his door and Curtis is tending to Shady Cooper who seems to have literally just fallen over after too much indulging. He has a nasty gash on the crown of his head from where it hit the gunwale and he's been excused from duty for a few days; Curtis seems to think it was a lot of fuss about nothing and the more pressing issue is keeping him away from the rum, and she's inclined to agree with him. Shark-bait Jonny has been helping Billy round up and tally the last of the weapons and is in the mess hall taking a final inventory, and the Captain… well the Captain hasn't said all too much to her and his door is firmly closed, and she's not going to bother him. Even if it was open, she doesn't think she'd take the opportunity either.

 

She walks Bones around the deck, helps Knuckles when he asks her to hold one of the sails while he patches it and, then at a complete loss of what to do, she goes to stand with her elbows resting on the gunwale and looks out into the ocean.

 

It's blue and choppy again and she can see some heavy clouds on the horizon although the day itself is surprisingly mild despite the wind. She wonders how much longer they still have until Barbados and then how much longer her and Foggy will be at sea until they get to New York, and what it will be like when they get there. 

 

It's worrying to her that she doesn't know nor can she even formulate an opinion or a narrative on it. It worries her even more, that she has found it so easy to ignore. The truth is she has no idea where she will be a month from now and even if she is “home”, she has no idea what that would look like. She could be Mrs Matthew Murdock or intending to be - that is, after all, the decision that is expected of her. It is why she is on this ship making this voyage. And yet… And yet deep within that place in her heart she keeps so very guarded from the world, something is wishing it was not so, something is telling her she could have more, even if she doesn't know what more looks like right now. 

 

She wonders where Matt is and what he's doing. There's a good chance he's heard about the destruction of  _ The Firefly _ \- that maybe the shipping company got word that one of their vessels was lost and notified the passengers’ families and friends with a telegram. The thought makes it hard to breathe and it feels like her heart is trying to pump molasses through her veins rather than blood.

 

Matt would be inconsolable. She knows him well enough to know that much. Losing her and Foggy would destroy him. But she also knows he would survive and muddle his way through. He would move on eventually. 

 

It's a thought as comforting as it is frightening, especially as she stands on the ship of a man who seems entirely fuelled by loss and rage.

 

Next to her Bones leans against her legs and she reaches down to touch her behind her ears.

 

“You want to live in New York, girl?” she asks gently. “Be a well-to-do lady and eat bonbons all day?

 

Bones doesn't respond but her eyes are alert and there's a shine to them that wasn't there before.

 

“Or maybe you like being a pirate? We'll call you Briny Bones The Bold, rather than Bones Murdock?”

 

She gets a small tail wag for her bad joke and, despite her melancholy, Karen chuckles.

 

“No, Bones Murdock isn’t good. Not at all.”

 

Bones makes a small grunting sound and leans against Karen’s leg, head on her knee.

 

“Briny Bones The Bold it is then,” she says. “No matter what happens, that's who you are, even if we think of something nicer than ‘Bones’ one day.”

 

Sea spray hits her face and even though it feels like a hundred tiny needles on her cheeks, there's something pleasant and refreshing about it, something almost nice. There's something nice about the colour of the waves too, deep blue with little white frothy lips and even the clouds look beautiful in their own stark grey way. It makes her feel a tiny bit better than she did before. And maybe tiny bits of happiness is all she gets now.

 

She turns to look back at the deck and, to her surprise, she sees Jonny climbing up from below. He smiles when he sees her and lifts his hook to wave but he doesn’t come over. Instead he glances around, gaze settling on the mizzenmast and the crow’s nest near the top.

 

“Wilson!” he shouts, cupping his mouth with his good hand. “Wilson, come down here.”

 

Nothing happens for a few long moments and then Jonny starts tapping loudly on a thin brass tube that runs the length of the mast. She can't make out if there's any rhythm to the tapping, if he’s using morse code or something else, or even if the tube is intended as some kind of communication device, but it does the job and Lewis pops his head over the edge of the crow’s nest and stares down at the deck.

 

Jonny waves at him, indicates he should come down but Lewis whips his head from side to side, points to his telescope and then towards the bow. 

 

“Come down,” Jonny bellows again. “Russo's orders.”

 

Even from her vantage point she sees Lewis roll his eyes, before swinging his leg out of the nest and slowly descending, his boots making a heavy thud as he reaches the deck.

 

“What is it?” he asks, eyes flickering to her. “I'm busy. Captain will have my hide if I abandon my post.”

 

“Your weapons,” Jonny says sternly. “Everyone was supposed to give them in by yesterday. Yours are still missing.”

 

Lewis has always been pale and pasty - skin sometimes looking white enough that he almost seems sickly - but any small hint of colour he has seems to drain out of him in an instant, leaving him looking entirely lifeless, more like a ghoul than a man.

 

He glances at her again and she turns away so as not to appear to be eavesdropping and not to stoke his ire any more than what this conversation is bound to do.

 

“Come on,” Jonny says. “Pistol. Cutlass. Dagger. Anything else you're storing as well. Mr Russo said you had brass knuckles too.”

 

The ship sways a little and another splash of sea spray touches her face and then she hears exactly what she expected to hear.

 

“I told you all already, I'm not giving up my weapons. I won't do it. I won't let you take them away.” Wilson's voice is choked and thin but she'd need to be deaf not to hear the undercurrent of rage in it.

 

“No one likes it, but we've all done it--”

 

“Because you're all a bunch of lily-livered fools,” Lewis says. “Letting him take your weapons away--”

 

Jonny frowns. “Wilson, Billy won't let me come back without your weapons so make this easy and hand them over.”

 

“You think I care what he wants? You are not taking my pistols or my cutlass - they're mine--”

 

“No, they're the Captain's,” Jonny says patiently. “They've always belonged to the ship. All of our weapons do.”

 

_ Except one, _ Karen thinks as she touches the pistol on her hip,  _ except one which I was allowed to keep. _

 

“I'm not giving you anything,” Lewis’ voice is louder and more tremulous.  “You're all so damn stupid. You can't see the truth. You don't want to see it, and this ship is going to go down--”

 

“Wilson--”

 

“It's her!” he says. “You all know it's because of her.”

 

She turns then, no point in pretending she doesn't know what's going on. Lewis is looking at her like he'd happily slit her wrists, push her overboard and leave her to the sharks.

 

Across the deck, Knuckles has stopped his sail repairs and is staring straight ahead at the three of them.

 

“She's bewitched you all. All of you! The Captain, Mr Russo, Curtis … you especially,” he says jabbing Jonny in the chest. “She's bad luck and has been from the second he found her and let her stay.

 

“Should have left her and let the ocean deal with her. No harm would have come from it. We could have let her drown and then we'd know for sure what she is. None of this would be happening if he had. And now we're all going to die...”

 

“Miss Page is a guest--”

 

“ _ Miss Page _ ,” Lewis all but spits out her name, “is a curse.”

 

“You'll mind your tongue when --”

 

“You don't see it. None of you see it but it's true. She'll use her blood to bring the sea monsters and destroy this ship.”

 

“You had best--”

 

“I had best hold onto my blades and my pistol…”

 

“What for?” Jonny asks. “What do you need your weapons for?”

 

Some colour seeps into Lewis’ skin then, turning the tips of his ears red and she can see a vein sticking out in his neck.

 

He swallows, bites down hard enough on his lip to make it bleed.

 

“So that at least one of us can deal with it when the time comes! At least one of us would be prepared!” 

 

He throws his telescope down hard. It hits Jonny's toe and makes him yelp, before it breaks and sends shards of glass and brass debris skittering across the deck.

 

He takes a second to glare at her before he storms off below deck, muttering angrily to himself and footfalls echoing long after he is gone.

 

For a moment or two nothing happens and then Knuckles huffs loudly and returns to his work, and Karen makes her way over to Jonny  who's standing on one leg looking unhappily at the smashed telescope.

 

“Captain is going to be very angry about that,” he says more to himself than to her.

 

“Maybe it can be fixed?” she asks and he shrugs.

 

“I'm sorry you had to hear that,” he says. “Don't take it to heart. Boy doesn't know what he's saying.”

 

“No, he does. He thinks I should have drowned.” She looks at his foot. “Are you alright? Do you need to see Curtis?”

 

“I'll be fine. It doesn't hurt much.”

 

She looks at him dubiously and he gives her an enormous grin, face turning bright red.

 

“You're not in any danger,” he says softly. “I'll get his weapons. The Captain will make sure…”

 

“No,” she says quickly and it startles him enough so that he stops mid-sentence. “The Captain will do what he always does and it'll just make things worse. He'll get the weapons but Lewis will just become even angrier.”

 

“I don't think anyone cares about Lewis being angry.”

 

She sighs and glances at Bones. “Maybe that's the problem, Jonny. Maybe the problem is no one cares…”

 

It's his turn to look dubious. “What do you want to do?”

 

She takes a breath. The air is fresh and salty and she sucks it down.

 

She doesn't know what she's going to say until the words are out of her mouth, and even then they're a surprise to her.

 

“I'm going to talk to him--”

 

Jonny is already shaking his head. “Miss Page - Karen, no, you can't.”

 

“Yes I can,” she says. “I can show him I'm just like anyone else. I want to get home and--”

 

“No,” Jonny shakes his head again. “The Captain won’t…”

 

“What about him?” she asks. 

 

She frowns at him and he looks away.

 

“He won't like it. He won't like it at all.”

 

“There's an awful lot of things the Captain doesn't like,” she says and Jonny knits his brow. “It’s for the best. If I can fix this…”

 

“You can't.” Jonny sighs. “Lewis has always been a problem. Not even Curtis can reach him, god knows he's tried. That's why the Captain is so hard on him.”

 

“But don’t you understand? That’s why he is like he is. No one talks to him. He's alone and isolated. Scared, when there's nothing to fear. No one for company other than his superstitions and old wives tales.”

 

She looks out to the sea and then back at Jonny. Somehow it feels like the idea has solidified in her head and there's a part of her that's almost sure that if Lewis just wasn't so derided and unhappy, things would be better and easier for everyone.

 

“I'm going to find him and end this mess. Please watch Bones for me.”

 

He opens his mouth to object but she doesn't stay to hear it, hands him the leash, and heads for the ladder to the lower deck, wind whipping her hair and the sound of thunder rolling in the distance.

 

~~~

 

It takes her a while to find him. He's obviously not in the mess hall or the library. She checks the quarterdeck and the storage rooms, the pantry, but he's not there either.

 

She’s almost ready to give up when she finds herself standing at the top of the wooden stairs that lead down to the steam engines and she tries very hard not to remember the last time she stood here with the Captain and he told her she was his responsibility and no harm would come to her.

 

No point in dwelling on all that now, she tells herself, no point in twisting herself up in knots about it either.

 

She squares her shoulders, grasps the heavy steel hand rail and descends cautiously into the engine room. She's never been in here before - there never was a need and for a moment she just lets her eyes adjust to the muted light and the smell of oil and salt. 

 

The room is huge, spanning the entire width and length of the  _ Mea Culpa _ and the ceiling seems higher than it ought to be given the size of the ship. It's hot though, the air stifling and damp and almost immediately it feels like her shirt is sticking to her, and her hair is plastered to the back of her neck. 

 

The engines - eight of them in total - stand imposing and heavy in the centre of the room, shiny brass and steel pipes moving steadily, gauges and billows moving in time with one another. To each side of the room there are dark, squat machines with metal funnels attached in sequences across their tops, just at the height of the gunports, and she surmises that must be for the canon balls and she can almost hear the sound as they crashed through the wood of  _ Scylla _ .

 

It’s quiet now though. There's no grinding or clanging, just the gentle hiss of steam and almost pleasant sound of clockwork as the gears turn smoothly in their sockets.

 

And then there's Lewis.

 

He's alone in the middle of the deck and he's pacing back and forth muttering to himself, repeating some phrase she can't make out. He's twitchy too, almost like his skin is bothering him and he'd like nothing better than to shrug it off and leave it in a heap on the floor. His face is twisted, mouth screwed up, eyes hooded and vein pulsing in his neck has been joined by another in his forehead.

 

There's a second she reconsiders this course of action. He's agitated and angry and maybe being confronted by the source of his rage is not the wisest move, but then he suddenly stops dead still as if he's sensed her there and, as he pivots to look at her, she knows the time for backing away is gone.

 

He glares at her but there are tears glimmering in his eyes, which somehow makes him seem both more tragic and more dangerous. 

 

He really doesn't look much older than a boy. Everything about him from his blond hair and his blue eyes to his short stature and general demeanour screams that he's more child than man. Still, she doesn't miss the cutlass hanging next to his thigh, nor the pistol and dagger at his hip.

 

He, like most of the people on this ship, is a walking contradiction.

 

“Lewis,” she says softly and his eyes widen like he didn't expect her to speak. “Lewis, would you do me a kindness and give me a few moments of your time?”

 

He scowls at her and another vein pops in his forehead.

 

“Absolutely not,” he says and his hand brushes the hilt of his dagger although he makes no move to unsheath it. 

 

She swallows, tries to keep her voice even. “Lewis, please, just a minute.”

 

He shakes his head firmly. “You think I don't know what you’re up to? You think you can trick me with your lies, like you have the other men? You think I will fall for your… your...”

 

“Lewis, I'm not. I haven't tricked anybody.” she takes a step closer. “I'm just trying to get home. That's all.”

 

“You would say that,” he says nastily. “It's all part of your game…”

 

“I'm not playing any games,” she says. “I just want to get home and I want to understand. I don't want you to be afraid of me.”

 

He barks out a laugh.

 

“I'm not afraid of you,” he says but the tremble in his voice tells her that's a lie. “I know what you are... and what you want.”

 

“What do I want, Lewis?” she's surprised by how even her voice is, how it's low and warm without being patronising. “Tell me what you think I want and we can talk about it.”

 

He rolls his eyes, hand twitching at his side next to his dagger, fingers flexing. “You've sunk two ships already. And now you want to do the same here.”

 

She purses her lips, cocks her head. 

 

“Why would I want to sink the ship I'm on? Surely, that would mean I’d drown too, as would my good friend, Mr Nelson?” she pauses, waits for him to digest this information before continuing. “Admiral Wesley sunk  _ The Firefly _ and your own Captain sunk  _ Scylla _ . When he found us, we were running for our lives

 

“I'm not your enemy.”

 

Briefly he looks confused, brow knitting and jaw losing some of its hardness, but then his eyes flash and when he talks she hears genuine hatred in his voice.

 

“Yes you are. You think you aren't but you are. Women on ships are bad luck and I'm the only one who sees it.”

 

“But I'm not. That's nothing but a tale… superstitions and--” 

 

And that's when he can no longer contain himself. 

 

“Stop! Just stop talking!” he roars and strides across the floor towards her, his boots banging heavily on the wood, punctuated by the soft hiss of the engines. 

 

“Lewis--” she tries to sound calm but her hand instinctively comes to rest on the cold handle of her pistol and her fingers curl around it through her shirt.

 

“It doesn't matter if you  _ want _ it to sink or not. It doesn't matter if you don't know what you're doing or if it's deliberate. Sirens make the ships run aground on the rocks with their songs and nymphs seduce good men, water witches cast spells, make the ocean angry, bring storms…” he takes a few more steps towards her and his breath is hot and sour on her face, “... but it's women - all women, women like you if you are what you say you are, are bad luck. They cause the men to lose their minds, bring the sea monsters with their cursed blood…”

 

He grabs at her arm and his fingers dig into her flesh painfully. “You will bring us all to destruction and--”

 

“That's enough”

 

The Captain's voice isn't loud but the mettle in it carries and Lewis’ mouth snaps shut instantly, colour draining from his face again and eyes turning ice blue. He swallows audibly, hands falling to his sides and balling into fists as he steps back.

 

Despite the heat, a shiver runs through her and the hair on the back of her neck stands up as she hears the Captain's footfalls behind her. She doesn't need to see him to feel the barely contained anger emanating off him but she knows if she looked at him now his eyes would be almost completely black with no light in them at all.

 

Like a demon… or a monster…

 

Or a skull.

 

He draws level with her and she refuses to give him the satisfaction of looking at him. He pays her no heed though and steps between her and Lewis, holds out his hand.

 

“No, I won't...” Lewis starts but the Captain rolls his shoulders and she hears the joints in his spine crack as he shoves his hand closer to Lewis, cocks his head.

 

There's a long moment when nothing happens. Everyone stands absolutely still and it's mostly quiet, except for than the gentle turning of the gears and the intermittent hiss of the engines, the sound of Lewis’ breathing... and her heart beating fast and hard in her chest.

 

And then Lewis closes his eyes, takes a second to gather himself and reaches for his his pistol, dagger and cutlass, unties them from his belt and hands them over to the Captain.

 

“And?”

 

Lewis’ eyes flicker to her, nostrils flaring.

 

“Don't look at her, look at me. You don’t need to look at her.” 

 

The Captain's voice is strangely amiable which only serves to make it more menacing. He's been so kind to her and Foggy, she'd almost forgotten how she met him and the merciless way he sliced his dagger across Grotto's neck. She doesn't think even then he seemed remotely as frightening as he does now.

 

“Kid?”

 

Lewis sighs and pulls a set of brass knuckles out of his pockets, turns it over briefly and then hands that to the Captain too.

 

There's another taut silence and then the Captain jerks his head towards the door.

 

“Go,” he says dismissively. 

 

Lewis goes. He gives her a wide berth as he does, eyes fixed firmly on the floor.

 

And then it's just them. Just them and the heat from the steam and the whirring of the gears and the rage coming off the Captain in waves.

 

He stands with his back to her for what seems like a very long time, although she's fairly certain it isn't long at all. And then he slowly starts putting Lewis’ weapons away; dagger in his boot, pistol at his hip, cutlass at the other.

 

A bead of sweat forms on her forehead and drips down to her cheek. She wipes it away.

 

“Miss Page,” he says, turning around and she's almost relieved to hear the fake friendliness is gone. 

 

“Captain.”

 

He takes a deep breath through his nose, purses his lips.

 

“Miss Page, it seems I need to make my position on this situation clearer.”

 

“No, your feelings about Lewis are quite clear.”

 

“This has nothing to do with feelings.” He says and his index finger taps rhythmically against his thigh. “I don't want you putting yourself in unnecessary danger right here on this ship when I have gone to great lengths to ensure your safety. The very least you could do is stay away from Wilson.”

 

“Is that an order?”

 

“It was a request. As the Captain of this ship I am asking you to stay away from him but if an order would mean you'd pay me some heed, then I'm happy to make it one.”

 

His voice is clipped, firm, and there's a muscle jumping in his jaw. But there's something else too. Something about his eyes and the way he's fighting himself to keep them hard and steely, something about the way he's swallowing too often and too loud and how the rhythm of his fingers playing against his thighs has changed.

 

He's ordering, but there's a part of her that wonders if he's not pleading too.

 

She wonders if there might be some hope yet.

 

“Maybe if someone--”

 

“--was nice to him, he'd be different?” he lifts an eyebrow. “Maybe if we all sat around sharing stories and he felt included it would all be fine. Curtis already does that. Wilson doesn't want any part of it.”

 

“Maybe he doesn't feel welcome--”

 

“What do you want me to do, Karen? Tuck him in at night? Bring him breakfast in bed. Tell the others to play nicely with him and let him beat them at cards?”

 

“No, of course not, but--”

 

The hook in his brow turns nasty and his mouth curls into a cruel smirk. 

 

“But? No but what? Isn't that what you're asking? We coddle him? Protect him? When he accuses you of being a monster or a witch we tell him he's misinformed and wouldn't he like a game of cards and it'll all go away?” he sighs, looks at her with a mix of anger and sadness. “This is a pirate ship, Karen. It's a decent one with decent men but it is a pirate ship. We do not suffer fools--”

 

She rolls her eyes. “He's barely more than a boy--”

 

“No!” his voice is raised and sharp but he seems to catch himself before it turns into a full shout.

 

She doesn't say anything but she glares at him and he seems to shy away from her a little before regaining his composure and taking a step towards her.

 

She thinks he expects her to take a step back but she refuses to give him the satisfaction.

 

“No,” he says again, quieter now - an angry whisper which she feels all the way to her toes. “He's not a boy even if he acts like a child. He's a man, highly trained, highly skilled and he can tear you apart with his bare hands if he wanted to--”

 

He’s so sure of himself and his words are so harsh and rough and yet somehow also so incredibly earnest that she finds it hard to look at him, but when she tries to look away, he seems to anticipate the movement and shifts to the side to follow her.

 

“You think I'm exaggerating? You  _ know _ what I do. You saw it with Grotto. Do you think I'd have anyone on board who couldn't do that too? I know these men. I know what they're good at. Goddamnit, we  _ hire _ them for what they are good at.” he makes a horrible growling sound in the back of his throat, and somewhere the steam engines hiss loudly. 

 

There's a tear leaking out of her left eye and she scrubs it away, wonders why harsh words from a harsh man who she'll never see again in a few days is choking her up and making her belly feel like lead.

 

He's closer now, crowding her, but he's letting her look away, watching as she wipes another tear from her cheek and hating herself as she does.

 

And then his hand is resting gently on her arm, thumb swiping over her bicep, fingers twitching. She thinks he means it as a comfort. She's not sure if it is because the shiver it send through her is anything but reassuring.

 

When he speaks again his voice is softer, cracked. “Stop trying to save him. Stop trying to pretend this isn't bad and he's just confused."

 

There's a part of her - small as it is - that accepts his authority on this. He knows his crew. He knows how these men work and think. But then there's the other side. The one where Lewis is alone and afraid and lost. The one where kindness goes further than cruelty and people deserve a chance to redeem themselves.

 

As if he's read her thoughts he starts to speak again.

 

“Karen, you're good and you're kind and you look for the best in people but sometimes there ain't no good in them no matter how much you want there to be--”

 

“That's not true,” she shakes her head. “I don't accept that.”

 

“Reality doesn't change just because we wish it did.”

 

“I'm not naive, Captain.” she pulls away and his hand falls to his side, but the imprint of it still feels hot on her skin.

 

He glances to where the pistol is tucked into her trousers.

 

“No,” he says. “I know that, but you are reckless and you underestimate him and every man on this ship if you think you could have bested him.”

 

“Maybe you underestimate me. Maybe you underestimate him as well.”

 

He doesn't say anything to that and she wonders if he's considering the point or if he just doesn't want to offend her by laughing out loud.

 

She hopes it's the former. Something about it being the latter would make everything unbearable. Either way it smarts. 

 

He looks away, tongue running over his teeth and hands clenching at his sides. 

 

“If something were to happen to you…”

 

“Oh stop,” she says. “Just stop.”

 

“I promised you safe passage and protection…”

 

“And you are giving me that. Lewis doesn't change anything. No one in the world would know if you didn't provide it perfectly.”

 

It's the wrong thing to say and she should have known it. She should have known  _ him _ .

 

“Goddamnit, I would know!” his voice is trembling and his hands are shaking. “I would know. I would know that I failed… I would know that I didn't do everything I could and…”

 

He breaks off, looks away. There are tears on his cheeks too now and he swallows hard.

 

They're not talking about Lewis anymore. Of that she's certain. This is about him and whatever it is that happened in the past that caused him to take up this mantle.

 

The horrible heavy feeling in her gut turns to something else. Guilt, shame, compassion - she can't really be sure, but somewhere her heart breaks for him and she reaches out, touches his shoulder. It doesn’t really seem to matter anymore if she was right or wrong about Lewis. This in itself feels much bigger. This is something deeper and darker, embedded in his flesh and bones deeper than any bullet could go.

 

If he wanted to hold her now, she'd let him. She’d welcome it. She moves closer, free hand seeking his but as her fingers brush his skin, he jerks away, looks at her like she's overstepped. 

 

And maybe she has. They’ve somehow entered unchartered territory and she has no idea what is and isn't expected of her.

 

“Frank…” she says quietly. “Frank, it's alright. I'm fine and…”

 

He doesn't let her finish. 

 

Later, she’ll wonder if it all became too much, if her closeness reminded him of something he thought he’d forgotten and all he could do was force the conversation back to Lewis instead of making it go forward, wherever that would have led. Later she’ll wonder why she feel for it.

 

“You stay away from him,” his voice is firm but not firm enough that she misses the fear at the edges. “Stay away from this and let me and Billy deal with him.”

 

“It's really not necess--”

 

“I will lock him in the goddamn hold if he even thinks about you.”

 

“That's only going to make it worse. Make him angry.”

 

“You're mistaken if you think that's something I care about.”

 

She's about to tell him that's the problem, but his stare stops her cold.

 

“This isn't a debate, Miss Page. I've been doing this for a long time now. Stop thinking you know these men better than I do.”

 

There’s a nastiness to his words and intentional or not it has the effect of making her feel small, maybe even a little silly and she knows the conversation is over.

 

There's a long silence and then she bows her head, wipes at the tears, the maelstrom of emotions grabbing at her and dragging her down. Anger, shame, guilt, sympathy… somewhere deep down something that she recognises as love but feels more like despair.

 

“Very well,” she says. “It is your ship.”

 

He sighs, immediately looks contrite.“Karen, please --”

 

“No, Captain,” she shakes her head again. “You have made yourself clear.”

 

She stares at him a moment longer and then she turns away and leaves the room, doesn't miss Shark-bait Jonny standing guiltily in the shadows outside.

 

It's not his fault. He's loyal to the Captain, as he should be.

 

It hurts anyway.

 

~~~

 

It's only later when she's about to sleep and Bones is snoring at the foot of the bed that she realises he called  her “Karen” for the second time since he’s known her. 

 

She has no idea how to feel about that.


End file.
